


like a river flows, surely to the sea

by toppermostofthepoppermost



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Children, Fluff, Happy, John knows how to cook, Kid Fic, M/M, McLennon, Paul is a great dad, Teacher-Student Relationship, Yeah you read that right, and Stella is cooler than everyone really, and kind of a technophobe, don't look for angst here you won't find it, the beatles use tinder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-11-09
Packaged: 2018-06-05 19:46:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 29,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6719536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toppermostofthepoppermost/pseuds/toppermostofthepoppermost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is smiling around his cigarette, head thrown back, eyes fixed on the cloudy sky, and it takes Paul all of his poor will to mutter, “You shouldn’t flirt with your teachers, you know?”<br/>“In my defense, Mr. McCartney,” John quips, shifting his gaze to Paul, “you make it very hard not to.”</p><p> </p><p>Or: Modern-day AU where Paul spends his days teaching everything Shakespeare, getting angry at modern electronic devices, raising a five-year-old girl who's 50% puppy eyes and 50% sassy comebacks and trying not to fall in love with John Lennon, his university student.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> [Italian](http://efpfanfic.net/viewstory.php?sid=3615361) by [malfoysamortentia](http://archiveofourown.org/users/malfoysamortentia/pseuds/malfoysamortentia)

  

 

 

 

 

“For the thousandth time, Stella, you are _not_ leaving the house without a coat.”

Stella lets out a loud, dramatic huff, before turning around and heading back to her bedroom. “It’s not even cold, Dad!”

But it’s _gonna be_ , and Paul knows it, he has been following the weather forecast since Ella’s teacher sent him a note saying that the kids were having a  fieldtrip that Friday - which his daughter won’t be able to attend if she keeps changing her outfit when they should already be waiting for the bus.

“C’mon, pumpkin, we’re running late.”

Stella stomps back into the living-room. She’s wearing a pair of yellow and purple leggings printed with bananas, her favourite neon-orange boots and, to her dad’s relief, a lime coat that reaches her knees. Paul knows better than to comment on his five-year-old daughter colour combinations, so he simply smiles and says, “See? Now that’s my pretty girl. Lunchbox?”

“Check!” answers Stella, lifting her dinosaur-themed lunchbox in one hand.

“Notebook?”

“Check! It’s in my bag.”

“Permission slip thing?”

“Check, check, _ultracheck_ , Dad, I’m _ready_.”

Paul smiles. He grabs his leather briefcase in one hand, Stella’s hand in the other, and they’re off.

The bus stop is only three blocks away from the house but they’re already five minutes late so Paul walks quickly, double and triple-checking his wristwatch every two seconds, Stella jumping between steps to catch up with him. “I’ll bring you lots of veggies, Daddy,” she exclaims, “Ms. Cox said we’re gonna harvey tomatoes and carrots and potatoes.”

“ _Harvest_ , Ella,” Paul corrects her, smiling. “Well, what do you think we make a nice dinner out of those?”

Stella looks up at him with an excited grin. “Can Uncle George come, too?”

“Sure, pumpkin. We’ll ring the flower shop after I pick you up.”

Luckily, the bus is still waiting for them when they arrive, and Paul says goodbye to Stella with a hug tight enough that Stella mumbles, “I love you, Daddy, but you’re kind of crushing me.”

“God, sorry,” Paul chuckles, parting just a little. “I love you, too. Take care, okay? Don’t wander off. Stay away from weird bugs. Keep your coat on, it looks very nice on you.”

“That’s ‘cause lime is my colour,” Stella explains, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “And I like weird bugs, Dad.”

Paul sighs. “I _know_. Do your best not to touch them, though, we don’t want another allergic reaction.”

Before Paul can hug her again, Stella’s teacher approaches them to ask for the permission slip and tell Paul about the kid’s schedule at the farm they’re going to visit. He’s supposed to pick her up at three, back at the nursery, where the bus will be dropping Stella off, and _six hours_ without her seems suddenly like a dreadful lot of time.

Paul ends up chatting about that week’s homework with a couple of parents as they wait for the kids to go, and Stella waves at him with a big smile from inside the bus, pressing her nose against the glass and making funny faces. Trying hard not to think about the germs there must be on that window, Paul laughs and makes a face back.

He stays there until the bus is nothing but a tiny yellow dot in the distance, and as soon as he can’t see it anymore he has to fight the urge to call Stella’s teacher and ask how they’re doing.

God, he’s _ridiculous._ It’s a _field trip to a farm_ , he tells himself, not a flight to the Moon aboard Apollo 13. The kid will be _fine_.

The bakery that makes Paul’s all-time-favourite vegan scones with homemade jam is just around the corner of the bus stop, so he decides he’ll go there to grab some late-morning breakfast, take his mind off Ella’s whereabouts and grade some papers he’s been putting off for more than a week.

It’s a nice little place, with pastel blue walls and round tables and a mouth-watering display of desserts that both him and Stella stop to enthuse over every time they walk by the shop’s window.  When Paul enters, the bakery is comfortably warm, and he’s welcomed by a sweet smell of cinnamon and jazz music playing in the background. He finds a spot near the window and sets his briefcase over one of the chairs before sitting down, then takes his time to go through the absurd amount of papers he’s carrying with him until he finds his university student’s tests on sixteenth-century literature he’s supposed to correct.

He’s halfway through the second one on the pile when a voice next to him asks, “Excuse me, sir, can I take your order?”

Paul looks up to find a young boy standing beside the table. “Yes, sorry,” he says, “I’ll have an Earl Grey with some milk, please. Not too much. No sugar. And, um, those vegan scones you sell, with the jam?”

“Strawberry or peach?” the boy asks, and Paul doesn’t know if it’s his face or his tone of voice, but he’s sure he recognizes him from somewhere. He only hopes it’s not from one of those shady dating apps George installed on his phone a few days ago.

“Peach sounds good,” he answers, fiddling with his pen and choosing to avert his gaze to the bakery’s display. “Oh, and a blueberry muffin, please, to take home. Also vegan, if possible.”

“Okay, sir. It’ll be ready in a minute.”

Paul nods and, before the boy can even disappear behind the counter, he’s already trying to figure out how to uninstall that bloody Tinder app. So far, it has only served to make him paranoid about bumping into strangers that might have seen the awful picture of his arse George somehow put on the internet. However, after deleting a folder that apparently made the front camera work and managing to change his keyboard to Chinese, Paul accepts that he’ll have to ask George or maybe Ivan to uninstall it for him if he doesn’t want to render his phone useless.

He’s about to pick up where he left off with the tests when the young waiter comes back to his table, carrying a wooden tray that seems dangerously unsteady as he holds it up with one hand.

“Here’s your order, sir,” he says, placing a little purple takeaway bag over the table before anything else. “That’s the blueberry muffin.”

Paul nods and watches him settle the food down with trembling hands. It’s pretty nerve-wracking, since the cup of tea is almost over-filled and his waiter seems to be the clumsiest person on earth, and Paul’s about to put the tests back inside his briefcase just in case when the teacup falls from the boy’s grasp to land completely over them.

“Oh, fuck—I mean, bloody hell—oh, God, _sorry_ ,” the boy mumbles as Paul watches, dumbfounded, how his tea expands instantly through the pile of papers he’s supposed to hand in next Monday. He lifts them from the table as quickly as he can manage, but they already look like they’ve been left soaking in muddy water for a week.

“Shit,” Paul mutters to himself, uselessly trying to unstick them from one another.

The waiter looks at him with a pained expression as he attempts to dry the tea off the table with a cloth that doesn’t seem big enough to absorb everything. “God, I’m so sorry. I’ll bring you another cup in a second, it’s just, our usual waiter got sick and this is not my job and, _shit_ —sorry.”

Paul sighs, assessing the damage: most of the tests have literally become _see-through_ , the ink completely washed out. He’ll have to prepare new ones and make his students take them again. How professional.

He runs a hand through his hair, scratches his nape and finally looks up to the hopefully-not-from-Tinder boy. “Don’t worry. Could’ve happened to anyone. Hell, it would’ve happened to me if I were waiting tables, too.”

 _That’s why I’m not,_ he thinks, but he chooses not to say it. The boy manages a smile, and Paul’s ninety-nine percent sure now that he recognizes him from somewhere. Hoping the question won’t backfire on him, he asks, “Do we know each other?”

“Uhm, I don’t think—wait,” the boy mumbles, before fishing for something inside his apron’s pocket. He takes out a pair of thick-rimmed glasses and puts them on. “Oh,” he says then, lifting his eyebrows, “Mr. McCartney.”

Paul frowns. He hopes, for George’s sake, that _Mr. McCartney_ isn’t written on the picture of his butt he put online.

“You teach my British Literature class,” the boy adds, and Paul sighs in relief. “King’s College?”

Paul nods. There’s no way he can remember the kid’s name, though, seeing how he has more than two hundred students, so he asks, “Surname?”

“Lennon. John,” the boy answers quickly. “I’m in fourth year, English Major.”

Paul looks at the soaked pile of papers and says, “Your test from last week was probably there, then.”

“No, really? _Shit_ ,” John says before rushing to add, “Sorry, I shouldn’t probably—well, _swear_ in front of you, I guess. It’s just—will we have to take it again?”

Paul chuckles. “I think so, yeah. No way I can correct those, you know?”

John huffs, and it makes Paul think briefly of Stella. “Can you at least tell me the answer to that question about King Lear’s literary devices? I couldn’t find it, like, _anywhere_ , it’s not in the text book, it’s not even on Wikipedia.”

“That’s because Wikipedia is a terrible source, which I tell my students repeatedly,” Paul says with a small smile, and he points at John with his green pen. “You should check again. I’m sure it’s somewhere in your text book. If it isn’t, that’s because I said it in class.”

“Oh, _c’mon_ ,” John complains, and he’s about to speak again when a woman calls him from another table. “Think about it while I prepare your tea again, will you, Mr. McCartney? Have some pity on me.”

Paul snorts. After John leaves, he starts eating his scones as he unsuccessfully tries to google King Lear’s Wikipedia article.

He wonders if it’s possible to print Wikipedia, have the whole thing on paper. He’ll have to ask George.

  

 

*

 

 

Stella comes back from the fieldtrip blissfully unscathed, with her lime coat covered in mud and carrying two carrots and three tomatoes squashed inside her bag. She spends the whole twenty-minute subway ride telling Paul all about the different properties of several vegetables and gushing over a baby goat she got to hand-feed at the farm. They’re back on the street and heading towards the greengrocers when she finally asks, “Can we have one, Daddy? _Please_. A goat. They’re so _nice_ , like, better than a cat or a dog or anything.”

Paul chuckles. He suspected this was coming. “We live in the middle of London, pumpkin, there’s no way we can fit a goat inside the house.”

Stella huffs and puts her hands on her hips. Paul hopes it’s not him whom she’s copying those habits from, makes a mental note to ask George if that’s how he looks when he’s annoyed. “A _baby_ goat. Baby. It’s small, like me. I’m sure we can fit him or her inside my room.”

“A couple of onions, please, three or four,” Paul asks the grocer, and he puts some potatoes in a bag before turning to Stella. “Luv,” he says then, “Goats poop a lot.”

Stella pouts, lifts her eyebrows and looks at him with her clear blue puppy-eyes, and Paul’s will wagers a little. He decides to look away from her little sad face before adopting a goat starts to sound like a reasonable idea. “I’m sorry, pumpkin.”

“Maybe we can buy him diapers?”

Paul chuckles as he pays for their vegetables, and he takes Stella’s hand when they are back on the street. “We are not having a pet goat.”

“But _daaaaaad-_ ”

“Ella,” Paul says, a little more serious, “We are not.”

Luckily, she seems to accept it, nodding and remaining silent for a couple of minutes. Paul’s almost sure she has forgotten all about it when she looks up at him and asks, “What do you think of alpacas?”

 

 

 

George arrives just before dinner, carrying a bottle of wine for both of them and a bag of gobstoppers for Stella that Paul makes her save for dessert. The freshly-harvested vegetables that Stella brought from the farm along with the ones they picked in the evening make Paul’s stew smell amazing, and Paul has to physically stop George from drinking spoonful after spoonful of sauce from the pot or they won’t have enough for dinner.

The food is almost ready when Paul remembers that morning’s encounter with his student at the bakery. He takes his phone off his pocket and hands it to George. “You’ve to uninstall those things you stuck in there the other day, mate,” he says, and he checks that they’re out of Stella’s hearing range before adding, “The dating apps, Tinder and the other one, with the flask and the hearts? They’re making me paranoid.”

George chuckles. “C’mon, Paul! Paranoid of what? Finding a date? I’m telling you, these things _work_ ,” he states confidently as he leans against the counter. “You know Jenny, Pattie’s sister? She met Mick through that. They’re married now, second kid’s on the way.”

“Is someone paying you to advertise this shit?” Paul asks. “It’s just—you put a picture of my arse in there.”

“And a damn flattering one, at that.”

Paul crosses his arms and stares at George. “My students could be staring at it right now. _Texting_ it to each other.”

“You’ve to think bigger,” George smiles, “Scarlett Johansson could be staring at your arse right now. Jude Law, if that’s what tickles your fancy. Tom Hardy. The possibilities are endless.”

“I highly doubt that Tom Hardy needs a dating app,” Paul says. “And, I mean—you know I suck at technology. It’s useless to have that thing just sitting there, wasting space inside my phone that I could be using for photographs or for downloading books—”

“Downloading books – Paul McCartney’s number one strategy to get laid,” George interrupts him, mocking a TV presenter voice, “Newsflash: it is _not_ working.”

“Ha-ha. Very funny. Just delete them, George,” Paul says as he pours the stew into bowls. “C’mon, let’s have dinner now and then you can show me how to do it.”

 

The vegetables from the farm make the stew taste better than ever, and Stella talks about her fieldtrip while they eat, pausing to stare at Paul with big hopeful eyes each time she mentions goats. George, who has had a soft spot for Stella since she was only a blurry speck on an ultrasound, promises to take her back to the farm soon for some quality goat-feeding time, which makes Stella squeal and run around the table to hug him in the middle of dinner.

When they’re finished, Paul clears the table and the three of them nestle on the couch, Stella chewing loudly on her gobstoppers and George complaining about Netflix’s recommendations as he tries to look for a movie.

“This is stupid,” he says after a while, “Dora the Explorer? Paw Patrol? Why doesn’t this have anything for _adults_?”

“A five-year-old owns the remote in this house, George, let me remind you,” Paul answers before taking a sip of wine. “She was the one who subscribed us to Netflix, actually. Don’t ask me how she did it, I just pay the bills.”

Stella lifts her head from the crook of Paul’s neck and says, “Dora teaches me _español_ , Uncle George.”

Paul feels stupidly proud at her good pronunciation, and he places a long, noisy kiss on her forehead that makes her wrinkle her nose. By their side, George finally settles for Avengers: Age of Ultron, which none of them have seen, and they uncork a second bottle of wine as the film starts, the smell of stew still lingering strongly in the dark living-room.

Less than fifteen minutes into the movie Stella is already out like a candle, her body curled up over Paul’s belly and one of her hands clutching tightly the collar of his sweater, and George instantly claims ownership of the remaining gobstoppers, making it a personal challenge to fit as many inside his mouth as he can. The movie plot is simple but Paul feels sleepy enough that following it becomes impossible, his eyelids closing every two minutes, and he decides to allow himself a well-deserved nap when his cellphone buzzes.

The display lightens up, a square of white over the table in the middle of the unlit living-room. Paul groans. “That has to be your hookup app thing, mate,” he tells George. “No other reason for my phone to ring at this time of the night. Delete it now, would you?”

“And keep you from meeting single hotties in your area, Paul? I would _never_ ,” George answers, leaving the bag of candy over his lap to reach the phone. “Wait—you've a match!” he says then, flashing the screen at Paul with a triumphant smile. “One of the blokes I swiped right for you the other day.”

Paul rolls his eyes as he combs Stella’s hair with his fingers. “For all we know, George, any _match_ I might find in there could be the leader of an organ-trafficking ring—“

“Who I would be glad to sell you to, if you keep acting like a bloody prude.”

“—or a creepy old man who lives alone in a smelly basement, with a _tarantula collection_.”

George chuckles. “No worries. I made sure to match you only with the most normal-looking people I could find,” he says, before turning the phone to Paul again. “And this guy actually looks kind of—you know, your type. _Dorky_.”

Paul frowns and leans closer to George, careful not to move Stella too much in the process. When his eyes finally adjust to the brightness of the screen, he’s met with the picture of a young bloke sitting cross-legged on a bed, playing an acoustic guitar. Paul is ashamed to admit the guy is _totally_ his type, thick-rimmed glasses, small brown eyes, angular face and a mop of auburn, almost ginger hair, until—“Oh, no—Oh, _fuck_.”

George stops chewing on his seventh gobstopper and lifts his eyebrows. “What? C’mon, he’s not that bad.”

“No, George,” Paul mutters, his eyes scanning the display again, “he’s my _student_.”

There’s a second of silence in which they share a dumbfounded look, and then George bursts out laughing loudly enough that the noise makes Stella frown in her sleep. He ends up choking on his candy and needs to drink a whole glass of wine to stop coughing, all while Paul gives him a death-stare from the corner of the couch.

“This is serious, mate, c’mon,” Paul demands, “God, I’m his fucking _teacher_ , what makes him _think_ —“

The phone buzzes again, and Paul stops talking to snatch it from George’s hand before George can get him into an even worse mess. It says _John_ on top of the screen, and Paul remembers – _Lennon, John._

“And?” George asks, his laughter dying down, “What did he send you?”

Paul’s eyes dart back to the display. Under John’s name, it reads:

_Still struggling with King Lear’s bloody literary devices. Want to help me over a drink? x_

Paul groans, rubs a hand along his face, tries to ignore the sudden warmness he feels over his cheeks. “Shit,” he mutters. “He’s using Shakespeare to flirt with me.”

“That’s—God, Paul, look at your _face_ ,” George chuckles, “You’re totally into it. You’re blushing like a soppy teenager—”

“Shut _up_ , George,” Paul says as he leans back against the couch with an exaggerated sigh, “It’s just—he _is_ attractive.”

“So? Write him back, mate. How long since the last time you got laid?”

“Long enough that I would be embarrassed to say it out loud,” Paul looks at George, then back to his cellphone. “He’s still my student. There are rules about that kind of stuff, you know.”

“For all we know, the bloke might be able to keep a secret.”

Paul bites the inside of his cheek as he looks at John Lennon’s profile picture again. He had been too worried by his soaked pile of paperwork that morning to pay much attention to him, but now he realizes that John must be at least ten, maybe fifteen years younger than he is, and in the photograph on Paul’s cellphone he’s all tight pants and brownish curls and strong hands and God, he looks absolutely _stunning_.

“Paul? Are you listening to me, mate?”

It takes Paul an embarrassingly long moment to unglue his eyes from the phone and fix them on George. “Uh—yeah, yes, you were saying?”

“Are we going to the pub tomorrow or not?”

Paul frowns. “What?”

“God, how can you be so bloody _dense_?” George asks. “The new pub I told you about earlier? You said Ella was staying with your dad tomorrow, said we could go grab a pint with Ivan.”

Paul puts the cellphone back inside his pocket before saying, “Yeah, mate, yes. Sorry. We’re going.”

George stands up from the couch, stretches his arms and lets out a loud yawn. “Okay. I’m gonna go, now, it’s later than I thought,” he pats Paul on the shoulder, then crouches a little to kiss the top of Stella’s head. “Do you still want me to uninstall that app for you?”

He’s smirking, and Paul rolls his eyes but doesn’t say anything.

George chuckles. “I knew it.”

“Sod _off_ , George.”

 

 

*

 

 

“Look, Daddy! Can we buy it, please? Please!”

Paul looks up from his shopping list and smiles at Stella, who is standing in the middle of the aisle, pointing at the biggest bar of chocolate Paul has seen in his thirty-two years of life. “Pumpkin, there’s no way we can eat that entire thing. Why don’t you pick a smaller one?”

“But Dad, this will last us a _lifetime_ ,” she insists, eyes wide-opened and shining with excitement, “Like, we will never have to buy chocolate ever _again_.”

Paul walks toward her, pushing the cart with one hand and holding Stella’s tiny pink purse with the other. The chocolate is almost as big as her daughter’s whole body, and Paul hates Costco’s marketing strategy to put the most ridiculous, high-priced candy at the lower shelves, right on Stella’s line of sight.

“Ella, luv, that’s too expensive and we don’t really need it, okay?” he says softly, crouching down to where she’s standing. “What do you think we grab one of those with nuts your grandpa likes so much instead, and a KitKat for you?”

Stella seems to ponder it for a moment, chin resting over her hand. “And a box of cookie mix,” she adds, serious.

Paul sighs. “Okay. But you can’t eat everything today, we will bake the cookies next week.”

Stella nods quickly, smiling, and she grabs the chocolates before dashing across the aisle to look for the cookie mix. “Don’t run, Ella,” Paul says absent-mindedly, his eyes scanning the shopping list. “Can you bring me some toilet-paper, please?”

“Yes, Daddy!”

 

 

 

They spend the rest of the morning doing Stella’s homework, which consists on finger-painting a self-portrait and leads to a very messy kitchen and Paul having to start an urgent load of wash, and when midday rolls around they’re already freshly bathed and Stella helps him prepare stuffed tomatoes for lunch.

After eating and doing the dishes, Paul tries his best to pack her a moderately-sized overnight bag to take to Grandpa Jim’s, constantly reminding himself that there’s _no sane reason_ for Stella to need three different pair of socks, two coats or five changes of underwear.

Stella watches him pack from her bed, where she’s building a fort out of pillows and soft toys.

“Why did you pack two different scarfs, Dad?”

Paul turns around to face her and sighs. “Did I do that? God, I don’t know, Ella. I hate packing, what if I make you forget something—“

“Daddy,” Stella interrupts him from inside her fort, “Grandpa lives half an hour away, and I’ll only stay there for _one night_.”

She’s right. Paul feels ashamed of himself for having a five-year-old as his voice of reason. He ends up letting Stella be the judge of what should go inside her overnight bag, and after she picks up a brightly coloured outfit and, to Paul’s dismay, only one pair of spare underwear, they’re off.

 

 

*

 

 

The pub is small, with red brick walls and dim lightning and Fats Domino playing on the speakers. When Paul arrives, he finds George and Ivan sitting around a high wooden table hidden on a corner, laughing loudly about something and halfway through their first beer already.

He takes off his grey wool coat and leaves it on an empty stool beside them before greeting, “’Ey, fellas!”

“Hiya, Paul!” Ivan says, raising his glass at him. “What took you so long? Everything okay with Ella?”

Paul smiles. “Yeah, no trouble on that front. She was so eager to stay with my dad it was a little heart-breaking, actually,” he answers before sitting down. “I couldn’t find a cab around my place, with the storm that’s coming.”

George, who’s filling a glass for Paul, looks up at him and says, “Place’s nice, isn’t it?”

“Yes, mate,” Paul chuckles. He grabs the glass and takes a long swig before adding, “You outdid yourself this time.”

They chat about everything and nothing for a while, from that past Tuesday’s Arsenal vs Everton football match to the car George has been hyped up about buying for months, and Paul is glad he chose to go out after all, feels less guilty about leaving Stella with Jim for the night after a drink or two.

Beer number three has just arrived to their table when George asks, after a minute of silence, “Did you write back to that student of yours after all, mate?”

Paul coughs, the potato chip he’s eating suddenly stuck in the middle of his throat. “I had—I had actually forgotten about that, you know.”

Ivan lifts his eyebrows and licks the beer from his lips before asking, “What are you talking ‘bout?”

“Paul’s shagging a student.”

“I am _not_ , George,” Paul hurries to say, “I didn’t even answer his text.”

And he hadn’t. Paul’s Saturday had passed in such a whirlwind of chores that he hadn’t had time to sit down with his phone, much less to ponder about the moral or legal implications of flirting with one of his university students.

If he _had_ looked at John Lennon’s profile picture a couple of times that evening, when he was riding the tube back from his dad’s house or while Ella laid down for a short nap, well—nobody has to know.

“No offense, Macca, but I can’t really picture you hooking up with people from Tinder and all that,” Ivan says, “I mean, you type everything in all caps.”

Paul frowns. “That’s because neither of my so-called _friends_ ever cared to teach me how to use the thing’s stupid keyboard—“

His rambling is interrupted by the buzzing of his phone inside his jeans pocket. He takes it out quickly, knowing it’s a call, and guilt settles like a knot in the middle of his throat when he sees his father’s number on the display. “Shit. I forgot to call Ella to say goodnight. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Paul throws on his coat and hurries out the door. It’s freezing outside, but there are some people chatting and sharing a smoke against the pub’s wall, bundled up in jackets and scarfs to brave the cold. Paul sits on the curb before picking up his father’s call, and he can actually _see_ a white puff of breath coming out of his mouth when he asks, “Dad? You still there?”

The line is dead, however, and Paul dials again but phone cuts off the call before anyone can pick up. After taking a look at the screen, he realizes that he doesn’t have any signal, and he’s about to stand up and ask George for his phone when a hand clutches his shoulder.

“’Ey, Mr. McCartney?”

Well, _shit_.

Paul wonders what are the odds of running into John Lennon at the University, then at a café, then at Tinder and then at this hole-in-the-wall bar in the outskirts of London. Either they’re quite high or he’s on a roll.

He coughs, tries not to think too much about the fingers tightly pressed on the side of his collarbone, manages to mutter a small, “Hey, uhm—hi.”

The boy looks like a bloody magazine model, ginger curls falling on his forehead, small brown eyes shining behind a pair of thick-rimmed glasses, cheeks flushed from the cold. “Here,” he tells Paul, handing him a cellphone, “Try mine.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Paul says, and he’s actually surprised about how _natural_ he sounds, like he isn’t talking to his stupidly attractive young student who may or may not have invited him for a drink the night before. “I’ll ask my friend for his.”

John smiles, and it’s a little breath-taking, makes Paul feel like a fourteen year old. “No, really. I just made a call, my reception is fine.”

Paul nods and hesitates for a minute, then finally reaches a hand to grab John’s phone. The screen is cracked into a million tiny pieces and, when Paul manages to unlock it, there’s a picture of a brown cat sleeping on a bed set as background. It takes him several embarrassing seconds to figure out how to make a call, and by the time he finally lifts the phone to his ear John has sat down beside him on the curb and lit a cig.

It rings three times before Stella greets him with a deafening, _“Daaaaad! You forgot to call me!”_

Paul runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah, pumpkin, I’m sorry, I didn’t have reception here and—“

 _“We watched Frozen_ twice _, Dad! And Pops told me to tell you that he already knows half the dialogue of it, which I’m proud of! And then we fed the chickens, and Uncle Mike was here, and the kids have a new dog and she’s the_ cutest thing, _Dad, she’s like, so fat and cuddly and you’ve to_ meet her _—“_

Paul chuckles. “Stop to breathe, luv.”

Stella inhales and exhales quickly before she starts talking again, _“—and she doesn’t have a name yet, Dad, can you_ believe _?_ That’s _how small she is! So Uncle Mike told me I could choose a name for her and I don’t know, I’m thinking about Mashed Potatoes—“_

Paul’s laughter interrupts her. “Mashed Potatoes? God, Ella, I wholeheartedly approve of that, please name Michael’s dog Mashed Potatoes.”

 _“Whole-_ what _?”_

Paul notices John is staring at him with an amused smirk, and he does his best to focus on the empty street before them instead of staring back. “Wholeheartedly,” he repeats, playing with his shoelaces. “Doesn’t matter, it’s like—like saying _totally_. I totally agree, that’s what I meant.”

_“With Mashed Potatoes?”_

“Yeah, it’s a very original name,” Paul smiles. “Now, I think it’s time for you to go to bed, young lady. It’s way past midnight.”

Stella sighs. _“Ugh, but Daa-aaad. I’m not sleepy, like, at all.”_

“C’mon, luv. I’ll have lunch with you and Pops tomorrow and then we can go to the park, what do you think?”

After a few seconds of silence, Stella asks, _“You promise, right? Even if it rains?”_

“Obviously,” Paul concedes. “I love you, pumpkin. Sleep tight. Try not to miss me too much.”

Stella giggles, and the sound makes Paul’s chest warm. _“I love you too, Daddy. Like, lots. Well, gotta go, Pops’ calling me now—bye!”_

She hangs up before Paul can say bye back, and it takes him longer than it should to put the phone down and finally turn to his side.

John is still looking at him, arms hugging his knees against his chest, a hand holding his cigarette as he takes a long drag. He’s got a leather jacket on and a flannel shirt underneath, and his skin-tight dark jeans are tucked in a pair of tan boots that lack a couple of eyelets. The flush on his cheeks makes him look even younger, and Paul notices how he wets his cracked lips before asking, “What’s her name, then, Mr. McCartney?”

Paul is pretty sure he’s getting frostbite on his arse from how cold the pavement is, but he doesn’t contemplate moving. He gives the phone back to John as he mutters, “Thank you. She’s called Stella.”

“Nice,” John smiles. He takes a cigarette from his pocket and offers it to Paul, who nods before grabbing it. “Kind of—elegant. How old is she?”

Paul holds the cigarette between two fingers as John lits it with a lighter. “She’s five, but she’s brilliant for her age. Though, you know, I guess every dad in the world thinks that about his children.”

John moves his hands back inside his pockets and looks at Paul, eyes squinted behind his glasses. “I didn’t picture you having kids,” he says, and he smiles before adding, “Well, I didn’t picture you using a dating app, either—pleasant surprise, that was.”

Paul feels his cheeks getting warm at that, averts his gaze to the floor before saying, “A friend signed me up, actually. I haven’t really used it, though, I suck at phones.”

“I’ll choose to think that’s the reason you didn’t answer my message, then.”

John is smiling around his cigarette, head thrown back, eyes fixed on the cloudy sky, and it takes Paul all of his poor will to mutter, “You shouldn’t flirt with your teachers, you know?”

“In my defense, Mr. McCartney,” John quips, shifting his gaze to Paul, “You make it very hard not to.”

Paul’s face heats up like a torch, and he needs to make a quick mental list of all the reasons why shagging a student in the middle of an empty street would be a bad decision. First, he’d lose his hard-earned job; second, he’d probably go to prison for indecent exposure; third, his poor cock would freeze to death—

“’Ey, Johnny! You comin’ or what?”

The voice comes from behind Paul and interrupts his train of thought, which he’s thankful for. It belongs to a brown-haired bloke who John greets with a cheerful, “Oi, Pete! I found myself a pianist!”

He pats Paul on the shoulder and _hell_ , his hands are _strong_.

“This guy?” The bloke asks, looking over at Paul. “Okay, great. The stage’s settled, so, you know, whenever you’re ready.”

When Pete turns around to leave, John looks at Paul and asks, smile as confident as ever, “You _do_ play the piano, don’t you?”

Paul frowns. “What? Yeah—I mean, I do, but how—“

“It said so in your Tinder description,” John interrupts him as he springs to his feet. “Next to a picture of your _bum_ , which I’m not going to comment on, since we’re trying to have a professional teacher-student relationship.”

George is going to be _so dead_ after this, Paul thinks. He takes the hand John is offering him and stands up. “You—why do you need a pianist?”

John throws the butt of his cigarette to the floor and crushes it with his boot. “That guy who was just here, Pete? This is his place. He asked me to play a few tunes, some Elvis, Chuck Berry, you know the type,” he says, and he rushes Paul towards the door with a wave of his hand before talking again. “Well, I was thinking, I’m playing my guitar but it will sound way better with a piano, too. You know some of Elvis, don’t you?”

The first thing Paul notices when they walk past the door of the pub is that there’s an improvised stage at the back of the place, which wasn’t there when he arrived. It isn’t more than an empty semi-circle with a mic in the middle and a battered wooden piano behind it, but it still makes Paul feel a hint of panic settling on his throat. “Of course I know Elvis,” he mutters, following John to the stage. “But—I mean, what if I don’t want to play? You didn’t even _ask me_.”

John turns around quickly enough that Paul bumps into him. “You’re right. Where are my manners?” he asks, his voice low, his features soft under the dim lightning of the bar. “Do you _want_ to play some songs with me, Mr. McCartney? I’ve no ulterior motive in mind, I promise.”

And then he _winks_ , and it’s ridiculous enough to make Paul chuckle. “You’re crazy, John Lennon.”

There’s a Mery Clayton song playing on the speakers and a comfortable hum of people chatting around them, and Paul can feel John’s chest pressing tightly against his, leather on wool, John’s breath _tickling_ the skin of his lips. He smells like cigarettes and beer and his pupils are blown wide as he fixes them on Paul, and _shit_ , the kid is _gorgeous_. Paul needs to gather all his self-control not to snog him right there.

When he finally manages to take a step back, he mutters, “Let’s play some songs, c’mon.”

 

 

 

Only when he’s sitting alone on the piano stool, away from John, who has apparently gone for a drink, Paul remembers he’s supposed to be on a lads’ night with Ivan and George. He scans the room until he finds their table, tucked away in a dark corner, and he waves at them until he catches George’s attention. George squints, then frowns, then throws Paul a questioning look, and Paul shrugs, not quite sure how to explain his situation without using words. He nods towards the piano and mimics playing the keys, and it’s only when George starts laughing that he realizes John is standing behind him again.

“You know you actually have to _press_ the keys for noise to come out, right?” John asks, leaving a glass over the piano. “I brought you a pint, but—you know, if you want anything else, I can go grab it for you. Since you’re doing me the favour of playing and all.”

“Beer is great, John, thank you,” Paul smiles. However, anxiety pools down inside his belly when he sees Pete getting the stage ready for them, moving a big amp, lowering the lights, putting a stop to the music coming from the speakers.

John notices it, apparently, because he asks, “You’ve never played in public?”

“Well, it depends on your definition of _public,_ ” Paul answers. “I did a frankly impressive rendition of Peppa Pig’s fifteen-second opening theme at Stella’s winter play last year.”

When John laughs, it’s like a breath of fresh air. “Tough crowd?”

“Yeah,” Paul chuckles, “Twenty-two four-year-olds, seven grown-ups and three babies that wouldn’t stop crying.”

Pete announces their show, then, standing on a dangerously old chair in the middle of the pub, and John quickly hangs his guitar across his chest. “You’ll do more than fine, Mr. McCartney, I’m sure. As for myself, I already won this round.”

Paul cocks one eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“Well—you’re having a drink with me.”

 

 

 

John sings every word like his whole body _means_ it, fingers jumping effortlessly between the guitar strings, lips instinctively seeking the microphone and vibrating over it while he slurs a soft _you were always on my mind_ ; eyelids closing and voice hoarse, thick with emotion when they transition to Elvis’ _Love Me_. He’s got a cigarette tucked behind his ear and one of his dirty boots taps the floor to the rhythm of the guitar, and after they receive a round of applause he flashes Paul a smile that makes Paul’s heart flutter.

Paul’s apprehension is long forgotten and he feels giddy, drunk on beer and drunk on _John_ , on the ginger outline of his curls bobbing under the orange lightning, the way his hands grip tightly the microphone when he sings, voice deep and backed only by the piano, _oh, my love, my darling, I hunger for your touch—_ and _shit_ , Paul is pretty sure he’s already more into this boy than he has been into anyone in a very long time.

When Paul improvises a medley that takes them from _I’m Ready_ to _Maybelline,_ John bows comically before him and pauses mid-verse to announce, “Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Paul McCharmly,” and the pub erupts in cheers, Ivan and George clapping enthusiastically, Pete whistling and raising his glass at Paul.

Paul’s cheeks hurt from smiling and laughter bubbles inside his throat at John’s attempt to dance while he plays the solo of _Maybelline_ , shoulders moving up and down, body crouched until he’s almost on the floor. By the time they reach the last song on their hastily scribbled line-up they’re giggling hard enough that Paul stumbles a little over the keys and John misses a few lines, but their audience is thrilled, dancing in front of the stage and cheering at them.

They wrap up their show with two song requests that are followed by a last round of roaring applause. After the music from the speakers is playing again and the lamps on the walls are back on, John lays his guitar carefully over the side of an amp and Paul drinks all the beer he has left in one go, not completely ready for whatever conversation they’re going to have.

There’s a smile spreading across John’s face when he turns to look at Paul, though, big and bright and impossibly _honest_ , and Paul finds himself mirroring it instantly despite his anxiousness. John takes a swig from his bottle, then leaves it over the piano, says, “Hell, Mr. McCartney. That was something else.”

More than half the people Paul meets on the daily refer to him as Mr. McCartney, it’s normal and boring and makes him feel old, but when John says it Paul’s stomach flip-flops.

“It was great,” he manages, “You were great, John. The love child of Elvis and Buddy Holly.”

“Woah. That’s the second best compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

John’s smile is blinding. He offers his half-empty beer to Paul, and Paul thinks of waking up early to have lunch with Stella and nods negatively, then asks, “What’s the first?”

“Well, it’s something I shouldn’t say out loud to a teacher,” John chuckles, voice low and a little slurred, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk. “Much less to one who doesn’t want me flirting with him.”

Paul is suddenly aware that John’s thighs are only a few centimeters away from his _face_ , trapped in a pair of skin-tight dark jeans that he wouldn’t mind having on his bedroom floor, and he needs to swallow the lump that lodges in the middle of his throat.

This is _wrong_ , he tells himself. No matter how charming and unfairly attractive John is, how much he makes Paul’s heart flutter, he’s still his student, and Paul is a responsible thirty-two year old man who won’t be getting himself fired for a shag.

He takes a deep breath, looks to the side as he struggles to produce a coherent answer, and finally mutters a weak, “How’s King Lear going?”

The change of subject is obvious and lame enough that Paul feels a little embarrassed of himself. John seems casual as ever, though, leans over the piano and chuckles, “I haven’t opened the book today, actually. I try not to cry over my academic performance on Saturdays.”

Luckily for Paul, conversation shifts easily to John’s university subjects, his required reading for the term and the topics he’s preparing for the following year’s thesis. He tells Paul about how he wants to finish his major as soon as possible to save some money and open a bakery, and how most of the desserts displayed on the coffee shop around the corner of Stella’s bus stop are actually made by him, and Paul cries a little inside at how _perfect_ this kid seems to be, with his impressive musical skills and his love for Shakespeare and the fact that he’s apparently behind his favourite vegan scones with homemade jam. John is in the middle of scribbling a muffin recipe for Stella on a napkin when Pete shows up with a glass of rum and coke for each of them, and Paul drinks it this time, lets the alcohol swim pleasantly down his throat until talking with John doesn’t feel like breaking rules anymore. 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...So. First fic. First chapter. I'm so nervous about this! I just really really love both modern-day AUs and Kid Fics, so this had to happen.  
>  Leave me a comment! Or hmu at tumblr:
> 
>  
> 
> <http://toppermostofthepoppermost.tumblr.com/>
> 
>  (Also, obligatory disclaimer: I certainly don't own The Beatles/their friends/their relatives. As much as I like them, that'd be highly illegal and absolutely awful. They're their own awesome selves, and they have nothing to do with the characters in this fictional story.)
> 
> I am not a native english speaker - so if you find any mistakes, please point them out to me. I'm trying to get better! :)


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

 

 

 

Paul spends most of his Sunday googling hangover cures, chasing Stella around the park and fighting the urge to text John.

It doesn’t go very well.

He finds himself digging his cellphone out of his pocket every five minutes - at his father’s house, at the subway, at the park, at the ice-cream parlour – taking it out, unlocking it, hovering a thumb over the Tinder app and finally forcing himself to shove it again inside his coat.

When Monday morning rolls around, Paul can’t stop thinking about John on the tube ride to drop Stella off at the nursery, about endless legs clinging to skin-tight jeans and fingers jumping easily between guitar strings and flushed cheeks stretching around a smile – and _hell_ , he’s _pathetic._

It’s been too long since he’s been with anyone, Paul tells himself, and John just so happens to be charming, witty and stupidly attractive – it’s only _that_ , but he can _handle it_. He’s got everything under control, he has, the spring on his step as he heads to the university doesn’t mean absolutely anything.

It’s starting to drizzle as Paul hurries up King College’s stairs. He spends the first half-hour of his workday in Brian’s office, handing him the lit exams that John had spilled tea onto and that he had done a quite decent job on drying and correcting, and then he heads to the auditorium where his British Literature lectures are held. Grey daylight streams in through the windows that line the place, and he can hear the rhythmic tapping of rain on glass under the soft murmur of the few students that have arrived early. Despite of himself, the first thing Paul does after setting his briefcase down and taking off his coat is look around for John who, to his dismay, apparently hasn’t arrived yet.

Feeling a bit let down, Paul plops on his seat and shifts his attention to a girl who approaches him with a question about Catherine Parr, and the fifteen minutes leading up to the lecture go by without him noticing as they discuss _The Lamentation of a Sinner_. Paul is in the middle of telling her an awful joke about Herny VIII when he looks up and catches sight of John, long legs scrunched under a desk on the second row of the auditorium, wet mop of curls dripping on the copy of _Shakespeare on Masculinity_ he’s reading with squinted eyes behind thick black glasses.

His cheeks are flushed and he looks a little out of breath, chest heaving up and down under a soaked burgundy jumper, and when he lifts his head and sees Paul staring at him a big smile spreads across his face, bright and honest and devastating enough that Paul loses track of what he’s saying.

Lips curling into an effortless smile, Paul nods at John in acknowledgment as soon as he manages to stop stumbling over his own words, and _shit_. This is going to be _difficult_.

 

 

 

The lesson goes swimmingly for the first thirty minutes or so – this group is particularly participative and opinionated, and they’re debating the absence of mother figures on King Lear, which is a topic Paul adores – until Paul mentions Lear’s death and one of his students raises a hand and says, “Hey, Mr. McCartney, spoiler alert!”, and John doubles over in laughter. It’s a little hard to focus after that.

Paul wraps it up with a list of book recommendations for the brave ones who are planning to write their thesis on Shakespeare, then waves everyone goodbye and tries to pretend that he can’t feel John’s eyes fixed on him while he cleans the whiteboard.

“You know you’re one of the cool teachers, right?”

He’s standing next to Paul’s desk when Paul turns around. His curls have dried pointing to a million different directions and there’s a smudge of green highlighter across his cheek, and Paul has to bite down a smile. “Am I?”

“You are,” John says, looking at the back of the auditorium for a moment, where a handful of students are chatting quietly as they head to the door. “’S not too difficult, though, considering your opponents. Personally, I’ve been twice the victim of Mr. Barrett’s chalk missiles, and Mrs. Hopkins fell asleep in the middle of our _Titus Andronicus_ rehearsal last Friday,” he frowns. “How can she sleep through a play full of mutilated body parts, really?”

John grabs firmly the edge of Paul’s desk and props himself over it. Paul is aware that he shouldn’t allow this, but John’s legs look a million miles long in his ripped jeans and his sweater is scooping to the side, exposing one of his collarbones, and Paul is having a hard enough time trying not to snog him to worry about any more stupid rules, honestly.

He coughs, manages, “Who are you playing?”

“What?”

“In _Titus_ , I mean.”

“Oh, ugh, Demetrius,” John frowns. “The one who’s grounded to pieces and baked into a pie, it’s a bloody stupid part. I compensate by how good I look in stockings.”

His lips curl into a playful little smirk, and Paul suspects John knows exactly what he’s doing to him, the cheeky git, when he talks about wearing bloody stockings while he’s sitting over the mess of papers that is Paul’s desk, hands propped in the gap between his thighs, body leaning just a little in Paul’s direction.

They’re silent for a minute as Paul tries to think of anything to say but how much he’d enjoy seeing John in anything that resembles underwear, and it’s John who finally blurts out, “Saturday was kinda amazing, Mr. McCartney.”

Paul shifts on his feet, fights against the grin that threatens to take over his whole face, scratches his nape just because he doesn’t know what else to do with his hands. “Yes, I, uhm—I had a good time.”

John gives him a smile that makes Paul seriously consider leaving his whole teaching career behind just to kiss him. “I know it’s only Monday, but—well.  I was wondering,” he says, “My roommate’s in this band, The Hurricanes, and they’re playing there next Friday and they’re great—“

Paul interrupts him with an amused, “Not better than us, though, I presume?”

“No, _obviously_ ,” John rolls his eyes, a smirk tilting up the corner of his mouth. “But still. I was thinking maybe, you know, you. You could come see them with me?”

Shit.

Paul swallows hard and just then notices that he’s hovering over John, his waist almost pressed against John’s knees, so he takes a step back and tries to compose himself. The problem is John’s eyes are bright and hopeful and he bites his bottom lip while he waits for Paul’s answer, and Paul knows he needs to tell him that _no_ , this is _wrong_ , completely _against the rules_ , but talking is proving to be very hard at the moment.

“Or we can go somewhere else, the two of us, if you don’t like the pub,” John adds, his head tilted to the side. “There’s this cool little place two blocks down from my—“

“John,” Paul interrupts him before his will falters any further. “That’s—I mean. It sounds really nice, but.”

John’s shoulders instantly slump down and he looks every bit like a sad, deflated balloon. “But.”

“But I _can’t_ ,” Paul says, because at the end of the day he’s the father of a wonderful five-year-old who needs him at _home_ , not out having dates that might risk their only source of income. “I’m sorry.”

John smiles weakly at his shoes, the same pair of battered boots he was wearing on Saturday, and Paul wants all of him _so bad_ right now. “Well, it was worth the shot,” he shrugs, turning around to grab his backpack. “Here, I brought you something.”

Paul watches with a frown as John produces a purple paper bag and hands it to him, smile at full-force again. He gets down from the desk, says, “For you and your girl, yeah?”

It smells like lemon and vanilla when Paul opens the bag. There are two blueberry muffins inside, some of his favourite scones and a jar of peach jam with a yellow ribbon tied around it, and Paul’s heart flutters madly inside his chest because there’s nothing about this boy that isn’t absolutely, ridiculously _lovely_ to him.  He stays still for a moment, watching out of the corner of his eye how John slides on his backpack, then mutters a stunned, “You brought me my daughter’s favourite muffins.”

John stops climbing the auditorium stairs and turns around, looks down to find Paul’s eyes. “Yeah, I did,” he smiles. “See you ‘round soon, Mr. McCartney!”

 

 

*

 

 

“And then we went outside to play footie but it was raining, like, hard, so Ms. Cox put a movie on and she brought blankets and tea and we sat on the floor, and it was that movie about the girl with the long hair and the frying pan?”

Stella sits cross-legged in the middle of the couch, wet hair wrapped in her Dora the Explorer towel, one hand clutching a white plastic mug full of chocolate milk, the other balancing Paul’s phone as she FaceTimes with George. Paul watches her from the kitchen where the water for his tea is about to boil, hears the confusion in George’s voice when he asks, “Isn’t that Ratatouille?”

Stella performs a very dramatic eye roll. “That’s, like, a completely different film, Uncle George.”

George bickers about Disney movies having all the same storyline, tells Stella a hundred reasons why Marvel is so much better while Paul pours the milk on his _WORLD’S GREATEST DAD_ mug, and he’s muttering something about Captain American kicking Nemo’s _sorry little arse_ when Paul finally flops on the couch.

“We don’t use that kind of vocabulary in front of Ella, George, c’mon,” Paul complains.

“Okay, hell, Nemo’s sorry little _bottom_ ,” George deadpans, sending Stella into an uncontrollable fit of giggles. Paul shoots him a glare but George smiles at him like he’s the most innocent thing, shrugs before adding, “So, dinner tonight?”

After steadying the plastic mug that wobbled dangerously over Stella’s lap and taking a long sip of his tea, Paul answers, “Only if you and Pattie bring Chinese or something on your way, yes? I don’t feel like cooking much.”

Stella fixes a wet curl that’s falling on her forehead and states, voice firm, “Dad has been _sulking_.”

“What?! I have not,” Paul hurries to say. “I don’t _sulk_.”

George frowns, ignores Paul completely in favour of Stella. “Has he, love?”

“The entire day, Uncle George. He’s being _difficult_ ,” she says, and George chuckles, probably because Stella _is_ the spitting image of Paul when she’s annoyed.

“I think your dad might be in need of some tickles, then, whatcha think?” George suggests. Stella’s whole face lights up, and before Paul can stop her he’s pinned down and squirming under her fingertips, the couch looking less like a couch and more like a puddle of chocolate milk.

 

 

 

Paul is leaning on the kitchen counter, watching Stella unwrap a blueberry muffin that he’s not supposed to allow her at this time of the night and feeling sorry for himself, when George and Pattie arrive with enough Chinese takeout to feed a small nation. Barcelona is playing, apparently, because George dashes to turn on the living-room telly as soon as he enters the house, yelling something about how he wants Lionel Messi to father his future children – the usual, Paul thinks.

Stella leaves the half-eaten cupcake over the table and jumps to the floor to greet Pattie with a tight hug, says, “ _Attyyyyy_! I missed you _so much_!”

Pattie laughs, doesn’t seem to mind Stella’s sticky fingers around her neck. “I’m definitely taking you with me next time I go to Somerset, Ella, how does that sound?”

“Really? Oh, my God, there are baby horses there, right?”

Paul moves closer to greet Pattie with a hug and answers, “There are _a lot_ of horses in Somerset, pumpkin. All ages and sizes, too. I’m sure Uncle George won’t mind taking us on a road trip one of these days.”

By the time their food is dished out onto the plates and set on the living room’s table, Stella has googled and shown Pattie a thousand different pictures of tiny horses, Messi has scored a third goal and Paul swears George’s eyes are a little watery as he chants something in a terribly broken Spanish along to the Barcelona fans at the stadium. They talk about Pattie’s family trip while they eat, about the new carnivorous plants on George’s flower shop that Stella is very wary of, and Paul fills them in on the play he’ll help directing next spring, a modern take on Thomas Middleton’s _Women Beware Women_ that his third-year university students have been working on for months.

Stella’s eyes look glassy and tired and she’s yawning as soon as they finish dinner, so Paul picks her up and takes her to bed before she can fall asleep crammed in one of the living room chairs. They’re only halfway through the second paragraph of _The Amazing T-Rex Detectives_ when he looks up and finds her snoring quietly.

George and Pattie have cleared the table and are watching some telly by the time Paul walks back into the living room. He pours himself a glass of wine, takes a long drink and then plops sideways onto the couch, head over George’s lap and feet on Pattie’s.

He declares dramatically, “I _have_ been sulking.”

George looks down briefly from the recap of the match, says, “Yeah, mate, we noticed. What’s gotten into you?”

“It’s that student of yours, isn’t it?” Pattie asks, hands rested on Paul’s ankles, and Paul huffs.

“Yeah. He’s kinda amazing and all. Ugh,” he runs both hands along his face. “I think I might have, like, _feelings_ or something.”

George drinks all that’s left on his glass, frowns before saying, “The bloke isn’t even that good-looking, Paul. Control yourself, would you.”

“But he _is_. He’s got _ginger curls,_ how many people do we know with ginger curls, really? and—wait, look,” he reaches for his phone, unlocks it and pulls up John’s Tinder profile, shoves it in Pattie’s hand before he can stare at it for too long. “He wears hipster glasses and his nose gets so red and you should see the guy’s legs—“

“Ooooh,” Pattie interrupts him, “Jawline game _strong_.”

“I know!” Paul says, not really knowing what that means, but it sounds like she’s praising John, so he will take it. “And he _reads Shakespeare_.”

George rolls his eyes. “Literally every single person in your British Literature class reads Shakespeare, Paul. They’re bloody English Majors, it’s what they _do_.”

“He plays the guitar,” Paul argues, twisting a loose string of George’s sweater between his fingers. “Works in a bakery. This morning he brought me Stella’s favourite muffins. Like, remembered they were blueberry and vegan and all.”

Pattie’s eyes widen at that. “Oh, shit. You’re fucked.”

“I _am_ ,” Paul sighs, staring up at the ceiling.

George looks down and moves Paul’s fringe out of his eyes. “Can’t you just, like, shag him in the teacher’s room or something? Get it out of your system?”

Paul tries not to think about that option too much. “It’s against the _rules_ , George. He asked me out today, too, told me we could go see a band next weekend, which only serves to remind me that he’s like twenty-one or something. His dates are at pubs, that’s how young he is.”

“Kinky,” Pattie says, smiling behind her glass of wine. “I think you should take up the offer. Nobody has to _know_ , Paul, your boss isn’t going to be out at a pub on a Friday night.”

Paul groans. “Probably because he’s a _grown-up_ with _self-respect_. Which I’m clearly lacking right now.”

“We can watch over Ella, have a sleep-over,” George offers.

Going out with John is starting to sound like a feasible option, and Paul needs a drink. Paul needs ten drinks, so he sits up and downs his glass of wine in two big gulps, pours himself a second one before he can think of attending work without a hangover tomorrow. “No. I am _not_ dating one of my students,” he concludes. “Now let’s talk about Game of Thrones or Beyoncé or literally anything else before I get drunk on a Monday, c’mon.”

 

 

*

 

 

Somewhere in between reenacting the scene in _Women Beware Women_ where Hippolito dies an unnecessarily over-the-top death by a poisoned arrow (to a group of easily amused students who Paul suspects recorded several videos of him doing this, no less) and pulling up Stella’s wet hair into a messy braid so she wakes up with even more curls tomorrow, it dawns on Paul that it’s already Friday.

He gets a text from George when he’s on his way to pick Stella up at the nursery, a very eloquent _“U c ur boy 2nite or no?”,_ and after the mandatory eye-roll (because _really_ , George is thirty-one, he should be above ridiculous text abbreviations by now), Paul throws himself on an empty subway seat and tries not to groan.

He takes his usual three to five minutes to tap out, _“I ALREADY TOLD YOU I AM NOT, GEORGE. DO ME A FAVOUR AND TYPE LIKE AN ADULT, WOULD YOU. XX”_

 _“lol pls Do me 1 fvr n tone down the caps,”_ George answers. A second message follows immediately, _“if u change ur mind i can look ovr ells.u could use a good shag lmao x”_

Paul types out _“SOD OFF,”_ adds a dozen angry emojis like Stella taught him to and huffs loudly enough that the old lady seated next to him stares in worry.

Bloody _George_. Paul doesn’t need a _shag,_ much less if it involves certain unfairly good-looking bloke who just so happens to be his university student. He’s cool, he tells himself. Calm. _Fine_. A responsible grown-up who doesn’t have a crush on John Lennon, whoever that is, the name doesn’t even ring a bell anymore. Paul is _over it_.

 

 

 

Paul is so not over it it’s infuriating.

He snuggles closer to Stella on the couch, tries to focus on the rerun of Master Chef Junior they’re watching instead of thinking about cute boys sitting in badly-lit bars right now. 

“What’s her name?” he asks, pointing to a blond girl who’s currently having a meltdown over a very dry molten lava cake.

“That’s Brittany,” Stella answers. “She has serious issues with over-cooking stuff.”

“I don’t get why they _cry_ like that, though,” Paul says. “I mean, it’s just a tiny little cake, and they shouldn’t go to the telly on the first place if they don’t know how to—“

“Daddy,” Stella interrupts him, “She’s _seven_. And you burnt my grilled cheese today.”

“I have never burnt a molten lava cake, though.”

“You’ve never _cooked_ a molten lava cake. That’s, like, the only reason you haven’t burnt one yet, probably.”

Point taken. No wonder Stella is Paul’s daughter; the kid is 50% puppy eyes, 50% sassy comebacks.

After tearing poor Brittany to shreds for two more episodes and having a nice cup of chamomile tea, Paul carries her to bed, tucks her in and stays until she falls asleep holding his thumb. Paul loves their Friday routine – going to the shops, cooking dinner together and watching whatever Ella chooses until she’s warm and groggy over Paul’s back on the couch – so it feels wrong, a bit like he’s betraying her, when he stands up and thumbs open John’s Tinder profile on his phone.

Paul actually considers sending him a message for a minute, types out a sad little _HI_ that lasts all of two seconds on his screen before he deletes it and closes the app, and God. He’s so lame. He needs _serious_ _help,_ here.

But John is charming and fit and likes Elvis and Paul hasn’t had a date in years and a shag in months, so. Maybe Pattie was right when she said he was fucked.

Metaphorically, at least.

He throws the phone on his bed before undressing, ignores it when he hears it buzzing because it’s probably just George with another link to an article about _18 Dogs Who Are Stuck In Furniture But Doing Surprisingly Fine_ , slips inside a sleeping shirt that has seen better days and heads to the bathroom.

After brushing his teeth and checking once more on Stella, who sleeps clinging tightly to her Mike Wazowski soft toy like a little koala would, Paul goes back to his bedroom, turns on the table lamp and gets under the sheets. He’s preparing himself mentally to scroll through whatever bizarre link George surely sent him as he unlocks his phone, but he’s met with two messages from John Lennon instead.

_“Found myself a replacement date for tonight. He’s bloody boring and not half as good-looking as you’re, but I’m kinda into beards, so.”_

The text’s followed by a grainy selfie of John sitting next to a cluttered desk, brown eyes small behind his glasses, red lips stretching around a smile and a hand holding up a worn-out copy of _The Poverty of Philosophy_ that has a picture of Karl Marx on the cover. Something that feels dangerously like butterflies swoops low in Paul’s stomach and _fuck it_ , he has apparently no self-control left, because before he can think twice about it he’s typing, _“I COULD GROW A BEARD. XX”_

He presses send and shoves his phone under the blankets before he can feel any more ashamed of himself, spends ten torturous seconds contemplating his whole teaching career until it buzzes again, then twenty more gathering enough courage to take it out and look at the screen.

_“Please don’t. I’m already struggling to look anywhere but to your face during lessons as it is.”_

Paul barks out a laugh at that, because this boy is unbelievably witty and unacceptably _lovely,_ and he’s trying to think of a response that won’t get his arse fired when two more messages pop up at the screen.

_“Problem is, when I try to stop looking at your face I end up looking at your bum, and. It’s totally unfair, Mr. McCartney.”_

_“Do you have Skype? Kinda want to show you something. I’m not naked or anything, I swear. Like, on Elvis’ life.”_

Paul is both completely unsure about what Skype is and completely sure that he’d approve of John naked. He weighs his options for a minute, then looks at John’s picture again, at his bright smile and the way his hair sticks up in every possible direction, and finally taps out, _“IF IT WORKS, I HAVE FACETIME. XX”_

 

 

 

In less than five minutes Paul has changed his t-shirt for one that doesn’t look like it has been run over by a garbage truck and is sitting upright against the headboard of his bed, panicking while his phone lights up with a FaceTime request. He runs a hand through his hair in hopes to settle it a little, checks that there isn’t any toothpaste around his mouth and takes a deep breath before hitting _Accept_.

There’s nothing but green and black pixels moving around the screen at first, but then Paul hears a thump and a soft, _“Oh, bloody hell,”_ and the outline of John’s broad shoulders appears. _“Shit, sorry, Mr. McCartney, my phone is the absolute_ worst _. There, you see me?”_

All of Paul’s efforts to keep his relationship with John strictly professional are worth shit now, he suspects, because they’re FaceTiming at two in the morning on a Friday night, and he should’ve thought about the implications of this ten minutes ago, probably, when there wasn’t one too bloody attractive John Lennon all over his iPhone screen.

“I see you. Kinda, uhm – blurry, though,” Paul says while John moves the phone around. “It makes no sense to swear something on Elvis’ life, you know? Bloke’s been dead for forty years, John.”

John finally manages to settle the phone down over the cluttered desk Paul recognizes from the selfie he received earlier, flops onto a nearby chair and says, _“What? Oh, I meant_ my _Elvis. That’s, uh, my cat’s name. Wait a sec.”_ His head is a mess of tangled curls and he’s wearing a black turtleneck sweater, and even behind his thick glasses he squints while looking around, lifts his head a little before calling, _“Elvis? C’mere, buddy, c’mon.”_

Paul notices colorful photographs and creamy white Christmas lights hanging on the far wall of the room behind John, an assortment of wrinkly clothes thrown over the armrest of a yellow couch and a sky blue plastic coffee table with two joysticks on top of it. There’s a small TV in a corner and a tall pile of thick books stacked on the wooden floor, and before Paul can peek any longer John turns around again, groans, _“Ugh, the bastard’s probably peeing on Ringo’s stupid quilt_ again _or something. Bloody Elvis—”_

“Of course your cat would be named Elvis,” Paul interrupts, trying not to smile too big.

 _“He’s Elvis Aaron Presley the Second, actually,”_ John corrects him. _“But we usually call him Evil Mastermind or Selfish Arsehole, those kinda fit him better.”_

“What happened to Elvis the First?” Paul asks, running a hand through his floppy fringe when he catches sight of it in the small rectangle with his reflection inside the phone.

He watches John grab a plastic mug with a picture of Miley Cyrus on it and take a long gulp. _“Well, The First was kind of a stray when I got him, and he lived here for, uhm, a couple months, but he kept climbing out the window and going back to the streets, and then one day he just didn’t show up for his afternoon snack,”_ John says, looking dramatically at the ceiling and wiping non-existent tears from his face. Then he frowns, looks to the camera again before adding, _“Which was a_ huge _dick-move, if you ask me, because I had spent, like, half my weekly wage on an awesome cat bed for him, and his litterbox was next to our toilet in the bathroom and everything, he should’ve felt_ totally _at home.”_

“You,” Paul stifles a laugh. “You peed next to the cat?”

 _“We shared a_ bond _, Mr. McCartney,”_ John states, serious, before taking another sip. _“I don’t expect you to, like,_ get it _, though, you’re the dictionary definition of a dog person.”_

Paul smiles, both because that’s true and because conversation shouldn’t flow so effortlessly between them, he thinks, like it’s an everyday thing to FaceTime in bed with John Lennon. “I am, actually. How do you know that?”

 _“Well. You’re, uh, patient and nice and your hair totally looks like something I’d pet, so,”_ John says. _“And only you and the stray dogs outside the bakery can digest my vegan scones, which probably means something. It’s like swallowing rocks with those things.”_

Paul laughs, head thrown back, then hears John start laughing too just a fraction of a second later. He has to stop himself from staring at the way John smooths wild curls back into a very messy quiff when they fall on top of his glasses, at the thin layer of hair that covers his forearms when he rolls up his sleeves, and it takes him an embarrassingly long time to produce a very lame, “I will not let you insult my favourite pastry, John Lennon.”

Apparently, John finds everything Paul says impossibly amusing, because he starts laughing loudly again. _“I make them, Mr. McCartney, I’m in my own right to insult them,”_ he says. _“The blueberry muffins, though? They’re great. Your kid knows what’s good.”_

Paul doesn’t bit back his smile this time. “Stella loves those things more than she loves _me_ ,” he says, “I swear, if the girl could trade her poor father for a human-sized muffin she would do so in a heartbeat. It keeps me up at night.”

He watches as John’s eyes wrinkle on the sides when he chuckles behind his cup of tea and inwardly thanks whoever invented modern methods of communication, the FaceTime app and high-quality cameras.

They share a moment of comfortable silence while John places a bookmark somewhere around the middle of _The Poverty of Philosophy_ and turns to the notebook that’s on the edge of the desk to put on some music _,_ and Paul suspects this should feel weird or awkward but it’s strangely intimate instead. Just as Arctic Monkeys begins playing, he asks, “What were you going to show me?”

John looks a little bit taken-aback when he turns around. _“Oh, uhm.”_ He lets out a breathless chuckle. _“I might’ve lied about that? Kinda needed an excuse to see your face.”_

John Lennon is _unbelievable_ , and Paul McCartney just hopes his grin doesn’t look as stupidly big as it feels on his face.

 _“And my roommate’s out tonight, playing with his stupid band at Pete’s place,”_ he goes on. _“Which is unusual, because he normally stays here on weekends, cramming in or, like, dissecting a frog or something.”_

“Sounds like a fun bloke.”

John snorts. _“I guess that’s what med school does to a person, you know? He’s an alright lad, really. And he’s about to graduate, too, which means that by this time next year he’ll hopefully be half as infuriating.”_

Paul chuckles, asks, “Why didn’t you go see him play, then?”

 _“Well, I saw his band like a million times already, really, and since you couldn’t make it or whatever, uh,”_ John answers, fiddling with a pen but looking straight at the camera, _“I guessed I’d stay in, read some good ol’ Marx for my Sociology exam and try to woo you via text.”_

It’s awfully cheesy but Paul’s face heats up a little anyways, and he raises his eyebrows before mimicking, “Try to _woo_ me.”

John shrugs. _“Yeah. Sweep you off your feet with my good looks and my heartwarming stories about sharing a bathroom with stray kittens. Is it working?”_

Paul knows very well that _this_ is the moment to take a step back, shut John off and start acting like the responsible adult he apparently _isn’t_ , but John is funny and lovely and somehow manages to look stunning at three in the fucking morning, with his eyelids at half-mast and the hair of a person who just casually walked out of a typhoon. It’s no wonder that he can’t stop himself from saying, “Maybe it is, yeah.”

 

 

*

 

 

Stella stops halfway through her very passionate, very out-of-key rendition of Frozen’s _Let It Go_ to yell, “Dad. _Daddy_. I’m bored.”

If he lifts his head a little bit, Paul can see her lying on the floor behind the living-room’s coffee table, her arms and legs spread like a starfish’s and an opened CD case covering half her face. He braces himself for the usual repercussions to his self-admittedly terrible jokes before saying, “Hi, Bored, I’m Dad.”

The CD case falls to the floor when Stella sits up, and her groan can be heard over Demi Lovato’s voice hitting a high note. “Ugh, Daa-aaad, I’m being serious.”

“Being Serious?” Paul asks. “I thought you were Bored.”

“You’re _the worst_.”

“Actually, I’m Dad.”

Stella sighs dramatically, rolls her eyes so hard Paul thinks they might detach. “Oh, my God, I will totally move to Pops’ someday soon, I swear.”

Looking up from the terrible paper he’s trying to correct, Paul gasps way more loudly than it’s called for, claps his hands over his mouth for a second before shrieking, “You _wouldn’t_. I made you lasagna today.”

He puts his pen down, closes the laptop’s lid and walks across the living-room until he reaches Stella, offers a hand for her to stand up. “You can’t just ditch me like that, you know? Some things in life come in packages, pumpkin, like being a father and telling very lame jokes. C’mon, up you go.”

She’s got golden glitter eyeshadow on and a Winnie the Pooh sticker stuck to the middle of her forehead, and she’s looking at Paul like she’s completely done with this whole being-a-McCartney business. “Can we at least, like, _do_ something, Daddy? I know you said it’s pouring down outside and all,” she says, frowning and throwing her hands into the air, “but yesterday felt like a _Sunday_ and today it is _actually_ Sunday and having two Sundays in a row is like the definition of _uuuugh_.”

Paul’s phone buzzes inside his back pocket and something warm swoops low in his stomach, but he does his best to ignore it. “What do you wanna do, then? Watch a movie? Cook something? Go for a w—”

“For a _walk_ , yes!” Stella beams. She picks up the discarded CD case from the floor and tosses it over the table along with a pink nail polish and a sticker sheet, then turns around and runs to the hallway. “’M gonna put my rain boots now so I can jump on _all_ the puddles!”

Paul sighs. “Are you trying to catch a cold on purpose or—“

“Can’t hear you from my room, Dad, sorry!”

It’s a lost battle, Paul thinks. Resigned to wait the mandatory thirty minutes it takes Stella to pick out an outfit, he flops onto the couch, fishes his phone out of his pocket and smiles when he reads John’s name on top of the screen.

_“Did you like the recipe, then??? I demand a review – lasagna’s my fave.”_

Paul is quick to tap out his response: _“DIDN’T BURN DOWN THE HOUSE. DAUGHTER ASKED FOR SECONDS. 10/10, WOULD PROBABLY BUY YOUR FUTURE COOKBOOK. XX”_

They’ve texted non-stop since their late night FaceTime conversation two weeks ago. John sends him silly good-morning texts while Paul gets Ella ready for the nursery and snapshots of colorful cakes and impressive towers of what Paul learns is called _pâte à choux_ during the day; and Paul sends him long ramblings about Stella’s shenanigans and pictures of cats he spots around the neighborhood in return.

Mondays are though now. Each time Paul catches sight of John smiling up at him during a lecture it’s like the breath is knocked out of his lungs, and he stumbles over his own words frequently enough that it’s awfully obvious for everyone in the classroom, he suspects.  John is unfairly endearing, and Paul is officially fucked.

He has given up on a half-arsed attempt at correcting one more paper and is putting on his tweed coat when his phone buzzes again.

_“I’ll make sure to personally deliver you a copy, then ;)”_

Stella is happily skipping back into the living-room, though, so Paul tucks the phone back into his pocket instead of answering and turns his attention to her, because he makes a point of texting around Ella only when it’s strictly necessary. “Ready there, pumpkin? Where’s your raincoat?”

“It doesn’t match my boots, Dad,” Stella states matter-of-factly, pointing to her striped turquoise and white Hunters.

She’s still got golden eyeshadow on and she’s wearing hot pink leggings and the ridiculously oversized sweater with dinosaurs that George’s mum knitted for her last Christmas, so Paul honestly doesn’t get what she means with _matching stuff_ , but he’s not one to discourage his daughter’s fashion preferences.

At the end, he decides to take the easy road and bribes her into her yellow raincoat with grape lollipops and promises of Disney marathons, and after that they’re off.

It’s rainy and humid and overall _horrible_ outside, and Paul makes an useless attempt to hold their huge Dora the Explorer umbrella near Stella’s head as she skips from one puddle to the other, tries his best not to think about the rain that might be getting inside her boots. After being stuck inside the house for the whole weekend Stella is understandably hyper, makes a running commentary of _everything_ she does and sees and smells and hears, sticks out her tongue to catch the thin rain that falls like sparks on the pavement around them, and Paul’s chest flutters with love because she’s so _beautiful_ , he kinda wants her to never grow up sometimes.

Once she gets bored of jumping on muddy puddles, Stella holds Paul’s hand and they walk a few blocks in comfortable silence, which is ultimately broken when she asks, “Can we go grab a muffin near the bus stop, Dad?”

It takes Paul several seconds to catch up with the question, and. No. No matter how much he might’ve texted John Lennon during the last few weeks, how unarguably _comfortable_ they feel around each other by now, Paul is not at all ready to show up in John’s workplace with his daughter. He coughs, mutters, “Isn’t that place closed on Sundays?”

If there’s such thing as a Worst Father Ever Award, Paul is probably the front runner for it. Stella instantly looks up at him with her trademark puppy-eyes and a perfectly executed pout, though, so at least he doesn’t feel like the only one who’s playing dirty. “We could try, please?”

Maybe John isn’t even _working_ today to begin with, Paul thinks. Maybe he’s at the back making more _pâté-à-something-or-other_ and won’t even notice them, and dammit. There will come a day when he grows immune to Stella’s puppy-eyes, but today is not that day. “Okay, just. Half an hour, yes, pumpkin?” he offers. “I still have a lot of work at home and we need to cook something for dinner, too.”

Stella’s flushed face lights up at that and she chirps, “Yes, thank you!” before letting go of Paul’s hand and running towards the curb. Paul gives up on keeping himself dry with the umbrella and closes it quickly instead, runs behind Stella before she can cross the street on her own.

There’s an awful pool of nerves lodged in the pit of Paul’s stomach when they reach the bakery and he tries to look anywhere but behind the counters as he finally walks in, listens to Stella’s thoughts on a banana and Nutella bread that’s displayed on the shop’s window to keep himself distracted. “What if, I mean, I’m not saying I will _do_ this or anything, Dad, but what _if_ I ate banana bread forever and nothing else? Would I, like, turn into a huge banana or something?”

Stella chooses a table that’s exactly in the middle of the whole stupid place, because _of course_ that’s just Paul’s luck, then grabs a menu and starts looking through it before he can object. Paul holds back a sigh and flops onto the chair next to her. “Well, my average banana bread consumption rate is really low, pumpkin, so I don’t really have a clue about that.”

He flicks a quick glance around and John is nowhere to be seen – not tending the cash register, not brewing any coffee behind the counter and definitely not spilling hot tea over anyone’s paperwork. Paul is both relieved and disappointed and also angry at himself for _feeling_ disappointed about John Lennon’s absence in the first place.

“Motorbike says that you grow watermelon trees in your belly if you swallow watermelon seeds,” Stella says, then leans over the table to hand Paul the menu. “I’m having a blueberry muffin, Dad.”

Paul grabs the menu and opens it, then does a double-take and looks again at Stella, who’s short enough that the table hides everything under her chin. “Who’s _Motorbike_?”

“Boy at the nursery,” she shrugs. “I can’t remember his real name, though, I think maybe Ryan? He runs real fast, so we call him Motorbike now.”

Paul’s pretty sure he remembers there being a Ryan in Stella’s class, so he doesn’t question the weird-nickname-owner further. He looks through the menu instead, settles on a slice of marble cake and a cup of Earl Grey, and is lifting his head to call a waitress when he spots a tall, wild-haired figure leaning on a closed door behind the cash register, smiling at him.

John’s apron has specks of turquoise and pink dough everywhere and there’s flour smeared on his forearms, and Paul feels something warm and fluttery spreading across his chest at the sight, smiles back at him before he can stop himself.

“Who’s that, Daddy?”

Of _course_ , Stella notices _everything_. Paul coughs, does his best to tear his eyes away from the tight hug of John’s apron around his hips. “Uh, he’s a student of mine. It’s, he works here sometimes, I—”

“Oh, my _God_ , Dad, why didn’t you _tell me_? Can I ask him to show me the kitchen, please? Can I? It must be _so cool_ back there, please, please, I will totally behave, I promise!”

Paul is about to object, starts saying something along the lines of “Stella, it’s not appropriate to—” but she steps down from her chair and bolts towards the back of the shop before he can finish his sentence. In three seconds flat she’s jumping in front of the display counter, trying to look at John through neatly decorated cakes and colorful eclairs as she flails her arms to catch his attention.

“Hey, hi! Hello, sir! HI-IIII!”

She’s loud enough that half the costumers turn around to see what all the fuss is about, and this should be a bit mortifying, Paul thinks, but John’s looking at his baby girl with a bright smile and he can only feel endeared, really. He’s just reaching Stella’s side when John says, “Hi there, what’s your name?”

He’s leaning over the opposite side of the counter, arms crossed below his chin and head tilted down in Stella’s direction.

“I’m Stella,” she says. “I was wondering if you could show me your kitchen? Dad told me you’re, like, friends or something—”

Paul crouches down beside her instantly, somehow manages to unglue his eyes from John’s face for a moment to mutter, “Ella, that is—no, pumpkin. He’s busy working, and we shouldn’t bother him right now, yes?”

“It’s not a problem, Mr. McCartney, really,” John smiles. Paul can’t stop thinking that he could just stand up and kiss him _hard_ , and this is not a train of thought he should be having in front of his five-year-old daughter. “It’s a slow day and I’m almost finished, actually. Do you want to see the back?”

Stella gasps, blue eyes wide-open and lips stretching in a huge grin, yells, “Yes! _Yesyesyesyes_ , please!” as she jumps up and down by Paul’s side, and Paul sighs.

“I don’t want to bother you, John, really,” he repeats as he stands up, his hand in Stella’s.

“ _Dad_ ,” Stella says and then she’s pouting again, all rosy cheeks and tangled curls and yellow glitter eyeshadow. “Please.”

“Yes, Mr. McCartney, _please_ ,” John whines, and when Paul turns to him he’s pouting, too, looks every last bit like the tallest five-year-old on Earth.

It surprises a laugh out of Paul, because apparently there’s nothing about John Lennon that isn’t completely ridiculous and charming and unexpected. “Okay,” he concedes. “But I’m still having my marble cake.”

 

 

 

Ten minutes inside the bakery’s kitchen and Paul is already 99 percent sure that Stella is plotting ways to replace him with John.

“You gotta lift the tip a little bit, Ells. Lift it, like, let the frosting fall on its own and— _theeeere_ you go,” John says, crouching down to be at eye-level with the cupcake that Stella is attempting to decorate over the counter. “Looks great, don’t you think?”

Stella lifts the cupcake with both hands and turns around carefully over the stool she’s standing onto to show it to Paul, says, “Look, Daddy, it’s so nice! I’m gonna do a rainbow one now!”

She has a white bandana with tiny ducks on it holding most of her hair back, there’s a smudge of blue frosting on her chin and her sweater sleeve has already been dipped in orange dough _twice_. Paul gives her a thumbs-up, though, swallows a mouthful of marble cake before speaking. “Beautiful, pumpkin. Be sure to snatch that recipe so you can make some for me at home, will you?”

Stella looks up from the piping bag John’s carefully filling with rainbow frosting and states, serious, “You should give it a try, Dad. There’s, like, absolutely zero chances of burning anything here.”

John snorts. (He looks so good, even wearing a bloody _bandana_ – Paul is kinda jealous of it).  “So your father burns stuff, huh?”

“Not only _burns_ , really. He’s a terrible cook,” Stella deadpans, taking the piping bag from John and leaning a bit over the counter to start frosting a second cupcake. Paul listens intently. He may be just a bit worried about this topic of conversation. “One time he tried to flip a pancake like they do in the telly, you see? Like, make it fly and turn around in the air or something, because we watch a lot of Master Chef and they always do that—”

The marble cake gets stuck in the middle of Paul’s throat when he realizes that Stella is two seconds away from telling John about The Pancake Incident, and he coughs, manages, “This is _classified information_ , Stella.”

“—so, Dad tried to do the flip thing and the pancake flew up and got, like, completely stuck in the kitchen’s ceiling. And we couldn’t unstick it,” she adds, unfazed. “We tried a million different things, too. Dad threw _flour_ at it, even, as if that could _fix anything_.”

John’s face gets very red when he has a laughing fit, Paul learns. He covers his mouth with the back of his hand and his eyes get smaller, shinier, and Paul doesn’t mind that his cooking mishaps are out in the open so much, he finds, if it means that he can see John laughing like this because of it.

He leans back a bit over the counter he’s sitting onto, tries not to stare at John for too long as Stella continues with the story. “So then it’s three days after Dad got the pancake stuck in the ceiling and the thing is _still there_. Everybody’s heard about it by now. Like, my Uncle George, and Pattie, and Pops, and Uncle Mike and Jan and Tommy and little Jimmy, too. Oh! And also Ms. Cox, that’s my nursery teacher, and the kind guy who always delivers our Chinese food. Dad made him come in and take a look at the pancake in case he knew, like, a secret Chef thingy to unstick it or something, but he didn’t.”

John tries to catch his breath between bouts of laughter and finally manages, his voice a bit raw, “Oh, my God, Mr. McCartney, you’re a complete nutter.”

He’s all flushed cheeks and watery eyes and Paul feels light-headed at the sight, wishes they weren’t half a bloody big kitchen away. “In my defense, I _had_ tried everything,” he laughs. “Prying it off with a broom, holding Stella up so she could try and unstick it. It was magically super-glued to the ceiling, I swear. This pancake was _war_.”

“We tried throwing some _more_ pancakes at it, too,” Stella adds. “Nothing happened. Uncle George threw oil, like, the one you use for cooking? That made it even worse.”

John is almost breathless when he asks, “Is it still there? I want to see this laws-of-gravity defying pancake.”

Paul chuckles. “No, it ended up falling down on its own, like, ten days later. Right on my _face_ , too, just as I was standing in front of the stove, which only reinforces my theory that the stupid pancake had a _personal problem_ with me,” he explains. “But there’s still a commemorative stain, if you want to check that out one of these days.”

Paul suspects he may have just invited John over - to check out a gross pancake-shaped stain on his ceiling, no less – but before he can feel bad about the sheer _unprofessionalism_ of all this, John looks up from the cupcake he’s decorating and gives him a wide, bright smile. He’s got one hand on Stella’s back, holding her steady over the stool, and there’s flour on his eyelashes and on his chin, and Paul can’t stop wondering if John smiles like that when he kisses, too.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everyone who left me messages either here or at tumblr, or who left kudos, or liked my post - you're all awesome, and your reviews give me LIFE.  
> If you want to leave me a message (which I'd LOVE. Like, really), you can do it here, or at [my tumblr!](http://toppermostofthepoppermost.tumblr.com/ask)  
> <3  
> I hope you all have an awesome week!


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

 

 

 

Parent’s WhatsApp Groups are _the worst_ , Paul thinks, and whoever came up with them has a special seat reserved in Hell – right between the YouTuber who showed George how to burp the British Anthem and the bloke who thought that sewing jeans pockets shut was a sound decision.

**MATTHEW (JIMMY’S DAD)** _did u guys get the mail abt the winter play bc my email isnt wrking so i didnt. do we need to rent costumes again._

**SOPHIA ROBINSON (MADISON’S MUM)** _Hey, sorry to bother, can anyone send me a picture of today’s homework? Thanks in advance x_

**GRACE (EMMA’S MUM)** _I Just Got The Email. Emma Is Going As Elsa So That’s Taken. See You At The Meeting <3_

**LOUIS (OLIVER’S DAD)** _when are the play and the meeting_

**ELOISE SPENCER (ISAAC’S GRANDMA)** _AWFUL WEATHER TODAY. MY HUSBAND HAS DOCTOR’S APPOINTMENT, MAY NEED KNEE SURGERY. THEN GOING TO MY SISTER’S HOUSE. XOXO_

**ETHAN (GYM TEACHER) (SIENNA’S DAD)** _please don’t forget that sienna’s birthday party will be postponed for sunday if it happens to rain._

**ETHAN (GYM TEACHER) (SIENNA’S DAD)** _[Picture Attachment] [Picture Attachment] today’s homework_

**HOLLIE (RYAN’S SIS)** _Can we have more than one Elsa? Ryan’s been hyped up about dressing like her for months. Please answer._

**ELOISE SPENCER (ISAAC’S GRANDMA)** _HOW DO I CHECK MY E MAIL GRACE_

Paul groans. This – this is his personal definition of _hell on Earth_. He takes a minute to tap out, _“PLAY IS ON DEC 15 TH, MEETING IS NEXT FRIDAY. XX”, _then presses send and briefly wonders if it means anything that he types exactly like Isaac’s granny, who is like seventy-four. He’ll have to ask Stella.

For now, he doesn’t let it bother him – he’s got more pressing matters to freak out over, like the unread text from John Lennon waiting for him when he thumbs over the tiny arrow that takes him back to WhatsApp’s contact list. He flops onto the nearest subway seat available, stomach flip-flopping with something that has nothing to do with the awful Starbucks coffee he downed in record time this morning, and taps it open.

_“I brought us sandwiches :D Where are you?”_

Paul smiles at the screen, writes out, _“WHAT A GENTLEMAN. ARE THEY VEGGIE??? I’M AT THE SUBWAY, WILL BE THERE IN 10. XX”_

He follows it up with a couple of smiley emojis, presses send and proceeds to stare dreamily at his phone until it’s buzzing again. _“Of course they’re veggie, who do you take me for? Hurry up, I’m huuungry x”_

Okay, so. Maybe Paul has been sharing a bit too much of his free time with John Lennon these last few weeks. Maybe his phone log is full of two-in-the-morning calls and strings of back-and-forth audio recordings between Ella and John, pictures of Elvis the Second sleeping on an impressive amount of weird surfaces and aimless voicemails of John singing 90’s pop songs at the top of his lungs, and maybe George has deemed all of this as ridiculous and disgusting, but.

October is a tough month, okay?

There are piles upon piles of thesis to read through, secondhand-embarrassment-inducing finals to correct and an absurd amount of unnecessary nursery meetings. Paul can use the funny, charming and overall wonderful distraction that is John – and they _are_ meeting to practice John’s lines for Mrs. Hopkins’ _Titus Andronicus_ remake, so he is, like, seventy percent sure that this isn’t even against university policies. Or sixty percent.

Maybe fifty, if he thinks about it too much.

He tries not to.

 

 

 

_“5 quid says youll b suckin this blokes cock behind a dumpster in less than 10 min lol”_

_“WE ARE MEETING AT A PUBLIC PLAYGROUND, GEORGE. THERE ARE CHILDREN. XX”_

_“i kno m8 that’s why i said bhnd a dumpster -_-”_

Paul synchronizes a loud, dramatic sigh with an exaggerated eye-roll before he taps out _“I AM NOT HAVING THIS CONVERSATION. XX”_ , then tosses the phone inside his suitcase and proceeds to wave at John, who’s already sitting on one of the ugly, big concrete tables at the left side of the playground, halfway through a giant sandwich.

There’s a pair of hot-pink earbuds hanging from his ears but he yanks them off as soon as he spots Paul, swallows a mouthful of sandwich before greeting, “Hiya, Mr. McCartney!”

He’s wearing a red, pink and blue floral-printed shirt with a denim jacket rolled halfway up his forearms over it, and this is unfair, Paul thinks - nobody should look so utterly _devastating_ while dressed like a Hawaiian hipster. He tries to keep his face casual, though, like he’s not completely blown away by this stupid ginger kid with his stupid glasses and stupid fashion sense. “Hey, Johnny. Still stuck on page ten, I see.”

“ _Eleven_ , I’ll have you know,” John corrects him, then pushes the Tupperware full of sandwiches in Paul’s direction. “Have one, yeah? They’re super fresh, I made them this morning. Baked the bread and all.”

Paul slides onto the concrete bench, leaves his suitcase over the table before grabbing a small baguette packed with shredded carrot, cucumber and hummus. It smells like heaven and he tries not to grin like an idiot at the mental image of John Lennon baking French bread for _their lunch_.

 _“Also_ , this play is completely ridiculous, Mr. M,” John continues as Paul bites down on his sandwich-masked piece of paradise. “Like, I just read, and I quote, ‘Villain, I have _done thy mother_.’ That’s—that’s basically Shakespeare making a Your Mum joke.”

“He did have a way with insults, you know? _Titus Andronicus_ in particular has—”

“What? No, this is _very lame._ And the butt of the joke is Demetrius, also known as _me_ , also known as the bloke who goes around wearing nothing but spiky leather pants the whole play,” John says, waving his sandwich around.

Paul nearly chokes on a slice of cucumber. “Is that, uh. Is that actually your costume?”

“ _Yes!_ Did those pants even exist in the sixteenth century? Because I’m starting to think Mrs. Hopkins just might have a thing with seeing young guys in tight leather.”

Poor old Mrs. Hopkins, Paul can’t blame her. “I think leather has been around since _way_ before the sixteenth century, actually. Stella says it’s one of the trends that always come back around or something,” he says, then adds through a mouthful, “I know I wore leather and spikes when I was a teenager, and Demetrius _is_ kind of a snappy thirteen-year-old, so—”

John barks out a loud laugh at that, his eyes wrinkling in the corners. “Wait, wait, stop. Were you, like, a _punk_? Oh, God, do you have any embarrassing tattoos? Did you ever get a mohawk? Did you repeat _it’s not a phase_ again and again like a broken Sex Pistols cassette?”

Paul goes through approximately two and a half seconds of horrendous embarrassment before he’s dissolving into a fit of giggles along with John. “I might have been a punk, yeah. No permanent tattoos came out of it, I—I was like fifteen, thank God, because I would’ve inked the anarchy symbol across my chest in a heartbeat otherwise. But I did get a henna one done at the beach once, on my upper arm, then refused to shower for three weeks.”

John looks at Paul like this is the most interesting and entertaining string of nonsense he has ever heard. He crosses his arms over the table and rests his head on top of them, asks, “What was it, then?”

Paul hesitates for a moment before saying, “A skeleton riding a skateboard, with, uhm, big black letters under it, the kinda gothic ones—“

“What did it say? Fuck The System? Fuck The Police. Never Surrender—“

“Skate or Die.”

It’s enough to make John double over in laughter, head shaking, loose ginger curls bobbing up and down. “Please tell me there are pictures of this.”

“Oh no, nothing, nada, all records of me between the ages of twelve and sixteen are _confidential_.”

When he manages to catch his breath again, John asks, “What about the mohawk?”

“I worked at my father’s music shop at the time and he wouldn’t let me get one, thought I’d give people the wrong impression or something,” Paul says, then bites down on his sandwich again and points at his hair, “I had like a blonde streak thing done, though. My brother helped me bleach it.”

“Oooh, sixteen-year-old music shop attendant with bleached hair would’ve ticked all the boxes when I was a teen. Did you ever go to, like, any huge concerts? Got to see Sid Vicious or anything? Joey Ramone?”

Paul chuckles. “God, no, I’m not _that_ old. The Sex Pistols broke up before I was even born, kid. I went to a Ramones concert when I was like thirteen, though.”

“How old are you?” John asks. He’s looking up at Paul with wide eyes and a bright smile, like Paul’s the only thing he sees in the middle of this loud, over-crowded playground in central London, and. This is not how play rehearsals are supposed to go, Paul thinks, but he can _deal_.

The question, though – the question feels Important. “I’m thirty-two. You?”

John looks to the side and it actually takes him a full five seconds to say, “I’m, uh, twenty-eight.”

Paul snorts. John Lennon may be a lot of things, but he is _not_ twenty-eight years old. “Right. And you’ve been studying English for _ten years_. Makes total sense, mate.”

“Hey! It’s not such an easy degree, you know? I’m taking my time—”

“John.”

“Okay, okay. I’m twenty-seven.”

“ _John._ ”

“Twenty-six,” John giggles. He bites down his laughter for a moment, then corrects, “Twenty-five.”

“You’re an awful liar.”

“Twenty-four.”

Paul rests his head over his hands. “What’s the countdown for?”

“ _Twenty-three,_ okay?” John says between chuckles, reaching for something inside his pocket. After a moment, he takes out a plain brown leather wallet, produces an ID from one of the slits and hands it to Paul. “And I know what you’re thinking, but that’s _not_ my fake ID.”

Paul’s gaze drops to the grainy picture of a younger John Lennon on one side of the card first – a John Lennon with long wavy hair that’s half hidden under a ridiculously big plaid scarf – then travels to the numbers under ‘Date of Birth’, and. John _is_ twenty-three.

Well, shit. That means Paul was eight—no, _nine_ when John was born. John wasn’t even a _cell_ and Paul was already far into in primary school. Hell, John hadn’t probably learn to talk yet when Paul started spanking the monkey—

“Did you think I was older?” John asks, and it’s a well-timed interruption to Paul’s train of thoughts, because it’s Not Very Safe to think about spanking the monkey with John Lennon around.

“Uh, I, well. Didn’t think much about it, really.” _Lies_. “I’m glad you’re not younger, I guess.”

What the _hell_. Paul needs to _duct tape his mouth_. Luckily for him, John is charming enough to pretend that Paul didn’t just have an awful Freudian slip, laughs it off with a, “That could be the title of a very bad porno.”

Nothing could’ve ever prepared Paul for these kinds of conversations.

 

 

 

The rest of the morning goes by between retellings of lame childhood stories and loud bouts of breathless laughter, and the only time John grabs his _Titus Andronicus_ copy is when it starts raining torrentially and he has to toss it inside his backpack.

Paul stands up quickly and takes his suitcase with him, watches John pull up the cotton hood of his denim jacket in an useless attempt to shield himself from the rain. “Well,” he says, bringing his free arm over his head, “that’s London weather for ya.”

John chuckles and produces an army-green beanie from his bag, hands it to Paul before saying, “C’mon, let’s get to my car.”

“You’ve a car?” The rain is _ridiculous_ , gets into Paul’s mouth as soon as he opens it. “I should—I should probably get to the tube, John, I need to pick Ella up in like half an hour, so—“

“I’m driving you, yeah?”

Paul is sticky and dripping wet and the tube is _not_ high on the list of places where he’s dying to be crammed into during rush hour, so instead of fighting it he follows John across the street. There’s a flood of traffic around the playground, loud car horns and colorful umbrellas under the rain that falls in sheets, and Paul is trying to remember if Stella grabbed her Hunters this morning when John comes to a stop before a baby pink Cadillac.

Paul frowns, gaze traveling along the glossy paint job and then trailing back up to John’s face. “Mate,” he chuckles. “Seriously?”

“I know! She’s the sickest car _ever_ , isn’t she?” John asks, smile at full force. He pulls the door open and climbs inside, nods his head towards the passenger door to urge Paul into the car. “It’s unlocked, c’mon. You’re gonna catch a cold.”

The Cadillac’s got cracked leather seats and It’s Raining Men playing on the stereo and smells vaguely of weed, and the first thing Paul says when he manages to shut the door close is, “It _is_ a pretty sick car.”

After tossing his bag onto the backseat and starting the engine, John grabs an Oreo that’s hidden under an assortment of old CD cases and junk food wrappers over the dashboard and pops it into his mouth. (It should be a bit disgusting, but Paul’s grown fond enough of this strange person who drives ridiculous cars and wears floral shirts to care.) “I bought it off a garage sale last year,” he says through his chewing, “Ringo changed the engine and helped me paint it over. Oh, and we found, like, three different species of rodents living under the seats. It was hard work.”

Paul tries not to squirm. “Why pink, though?”

“Elvis drove a pink Caddy,” John states simply. Of _course_ it had to do with Elvis. “Okay, so, Ells’ nursery’s address?”

Considering the recklessness John seems to weave through life with, it shouldn’t be surprising that he’s a terrible driver, Paul thinks. After less than five minutes of watching him make his way across London, Paul is already out of fingers to count infractions on, but John seems unfazed, looks up Journey on his iPhone and sings along to _Don’t Stop Believing_ instead of _paying attention to the actual road._

“Do you even have a license? You don’t drive like someone who has a license.”

“Of _course_ I’ve a license, Mr. McCartney. Now, please google Shrek’s soundtrack for me. _I’m A Believer_ , specifically. It’s on YouTube.”

“Okay, just—try to cut back a bit with the air guitar, will ya? Makes me nervous that your hands aren’t on the wheel.”

“Noted.”

They’re making good time, though, even after John stops at the bakery to pick up a paper bag full of blueberry muffins and two tall coffee cups that Paul struggles to keep steady over his lap, and they still have a couple of minutes to spare when they reach the nursery.

“You know what?” John asks. He’s parking _horrendously_ , almost a meter away from the curb. “Maybe I won’t even study my lines. Maybe I’ll just, like, go up there and improvise something. That should be worth much more than just memorizing a script, right? That’s _creativity_.”

Paul snorts. “I’m sure Mrs. Hopkins will be glad.”

They share a moment of comfortable silence, John’s mop of curls smashed against the headrest and his eyes tracing Paul’s face like he’s looking for _something_. Oreo crumbs line his lower lip and even though his skin is wet, collarbones shiny and stupidly _inviting_ , he seems to radiate warmth between them and against the Cadillac’s cold leather seat, and Paul has to physically hold himself back from leaping forward to kiss him.

When John finally talks, his voice is low and his eyes are unashamedly fixed on Paul’s _mouth_. It’s completely unfair. “You’re coming to see the play, right?”

“’Course, Johnny,” Paul manages.

“Even if I end up doing a terrible improvisation.”

Paul chuckles. “Even if you end up doing a terrible improvisation.”

“Alright.”

“Alright.”

The thing is, Paul could stay here all day, he thinks, with the soothing tap of the downpour hitting the car’s metal roof and the raindrops chasing each other across the windshield, and he’s cold and uncomfortable but John is so close to him, so, so close right now, all blown-wide pupils on clear hazel eyes—

“Joooohn, hi! What are you doing—oh, hi, Dad! Oh my _God_ , you guys, this is the best car _ever_ —“

Paul straightens his back against the seat, and. Well. Maybe he isn’t getting laid anytime soon, but at least he’s a good father. The fact that Stella is not only wearing her stripped Hunters but also carrying their Dora the Explorer umbrella serves as further confirmation of this fact.

“Hiya, pumpkin,” he greets her, actively trying not to turn into a puddle of mush at the sight of John rushing to open the car door, then scooping Stella up onto his lap. “How was your—“

“This is _so cool_ , John, did you paint it yourself? I _lovelovelove_ baby pink, it’s my, uhm, third—no, fourth favourite colour, blue’s gone up this week—oh my God, is that a Beyoncé CD? Can we put it on, _please_? Also your shirt is, like, the best thing in the _world_ —after puppies, that is—where did you get it? Do you know how to sew? Can you give me driving lessons someday? And sewing lessons. Oh, and painting lessons and baking lessons!”

Paul tries not to feel offended that Stella has completely disregarded him in favour of John, who looks both thoroughly amused and a bit taken aback by her gushing. “John is _not_ teaching you how to drive, Stella, he’s a _menace_.”

“Your lack of faith in me is hurtful,” John says, pretending to wipe an invisible tear from his cheek. “Not even, like, riding a scooter or a bicycle—“

“Do you know how to ride bikes?! Dad, please, can John help me with the bike, please,” Stella _begs_ , and Paul is fucked because there might actually be a tiny bicycle stored behind his wardrobe since Stella’s birthday, when Jim gave it to her as a gift that never saw the light of day because Paul’s biggest life secret is that he _can’t ride bikes_.

“I’ve taught both my step-sisters, you know,” John says while he opens the bag of muffins. (Stella squeals.) “And they drive a mean bike, Mr. McCartney. I’m just saying.”

Paul chuckles. “Oh, well. As long as you both wear helmets, I don’t see an issue.”

There’s a collective “YAY!” and a high-five and Stella crawls from John’s lap to Paul’s, who almost spills both coffees when he’s suddenly crushed by the sheer force of an excited five-year-old-girl’s hug. “Thank you, Daddy! Are we going, like, now?”

John laughs. “It’s raining too much now, Ells, but I’m sure we can go one of these days.”

Stella shrugs, says with a smile, “Okay. Can we listen to Beyoncé while we eat the muffins, please?”

“Yeah, kiddo, I got you covered.”

A few minutes later they’re singing along to Single Ladies and John is picking the blueberries out of the muffins and trying to throw them inside Paul’s mouth with what might possibly be the worst aim on Earth. Stella is ecstatic, gets breathless and flushed from laughing at John’s terrible dance moves - and this feels _comfortable_ , Paul thinks, like having messy picnics at the front seat of a Cadillac on a rainy afternoon is the norm, like being driven home by a charming boy who listens intently to his daughter talk about dancing routines is an everyday thing.

As he watches John kiss the top of Stella’s head goodbye and then pull up the hood of her raincoat (even though they’re literally three steps away from the house and under a much-too-big umbrella) Paul’s chest aches a bit, the fondness growing inside it trying to escape him.

God-fucking-dammit.

He’s completely and utterly _screwed_.

 

 

 *

 

 

_“I’ll be there half past seven, ring me anyways when you arrive :) x”_

Paul taps out _“IT’S A DATE. XX”_ , then turns his attention back to Pattie and says, “I am a grown, responsible adult, and I am _not_ letting this turn into a date.”

There’s a mess of clothes over his bed and Pattie lies diagonally across it, humming along to the Mario Kart theme song that’s coming from the living room as she flips through the pages of an old National Geographic magazine. Without looking up, she mumbles, “Yeah, mate, sure. You keep telling yourself that.”

Paul _whines_. It’s two hours until he has to meet John for a stupid seminar on bloody _Wordsworth tragedies_ and he’s officially Freaking Out. “C’mon, Pat,” he says, struggling to put on a pair of black boxer briefs under the towel he’s got wrapped around his waist. “I need a pep talk.”

“Oh, bloody hell.” The dinosaur-patterned jumper George’s mum knitted for Paul last Christmas falls from Pattie’s chest to the bed when she sits up. “Okay. You’re a good-looking bloke with a killer arse, and all of us are rooting for you to shag John senseless tonight so you can finally shut up about him.”

Paul groans. “Very reassuring, babe, thank you,” he says, grabbing a green shirt from the wardrobe behind him. “This one with the brown jeans, maybe?”

“Do you _want_ to look like a tree?”

“Shit, you’re right. Uhm, what about my white and red trousers, the ones we got at that flea market near Ivan’s? Those make me look kinda cool.”

“Jesus, Paul, _no_ , not even as a joke,” Pattie says as she stands up from the bed. “Let’s see what you’ve got instead, yeah? You gotta dress formal, right?”

Paul scratches his nape. “Sort of, yes. Not like wedding-formal or anything, but—it’s at the National Gallery, you know, so it’s kinda fancy stuff. Most people wear a nice blazer, at least.”

She layers a striped shirt with a navy blue sweater and props them against Paul’s naked torso. “And you’re going to take John to a good restaurant or something afterwards, aren’t you?”

“Uh, he didn’t _say_ anything.”

Discarding Outfit Nº1, Pattie grabs a pair of burgundy trousers and hands it to Paul, who holds them over his towel while she shuffles through a drawer stuffed with jumpers. “Right, but your dork meetup lasts like three hours and he’s gonna be starving by the end of it, P. You two arranged to _go together_ , it’s, like, the obvious thing to assume that you’ll have dinner afterwards—“

The trouser falls to the floor when Paul slaps his hands against his face. “Oh my _God_ , he will be _totally_ expecting me to take him to a restaurant, won’t he—or he’ll want to invite _me_ , which is even worse because I don’t know how to say no to hot hipster blokes, shit, I can’t—”

“Calm _down_ , Jamie, you’re being ridiculous.” Pattie crouches to pick up the trousers, tosses them onto the bed and then slides Paul’s hands off his face. “There is literally zero reasons for you to freak out,” she says, squishing Paul’s cheeks together with her fingers until he looks like one of Stella’s impressions of Nemo. When she speaks again, it’s punctuating each of her words with a squeeze, “This. Is. Gonna. Be. Fine. Now show me your tightest pair of jeans, I’ll help you into them. You’re _so_ getting laid tonight.”

 

 

 

“And there he is, our George-us Bowser performing an spectacular turn that puts him on the lead again—he is _brilliant_ , astounding, extraordinary, most definitely the fiercest racer of this Friday evening,” George narrates quickly, body slouched forwards and knuckles white around the joystick. “Ooooh, look how he goes, fast as a lightning bolt, strategically places three bananas on a perfect line and will little Toad be able to dodge them? Three, two, one—I can’t believe it! Clueless as _ever_ , young Toad stumbles on every single one of them, and this is a beautiful planning by Bowser, truly beautiful—but are those _tears_ what the crowd spots in Toad’s eyes? Such a _loser_ —“

Stella looks away from the TV for roughly two seconds to glare at George and that’s enough for Toad, her character, to veer off Rainbow Road and fall into the dark void underneath it. She gasps, wide-eyed, and George barks out a laugh before resuming his running commentary with, “Un-be-liev-a-ble! Little Toad suffers soul-crushing defeat for the third time in a row! The crowd _boos_ at what’s possibly the worst performance in the McCartney’s household already shameful history—“

“Da-aaaaaad,” Stella whines, and Paul can’t blame her, really – George is insufferable when it comes to Mario Kart. As soon as he finishes sliding on the grey blazer Pattie picked out for him over his mustard yellow jumper (fashion apparently means _layers_ , Paul learns), he walks over Stella’s side of the couch and wraps one arm around her, then crouches to kiss the bridge of her nose, murmurs, “I promise I’ll be back soon, pumpkin, I am _not_ leaving you behind with this Mario Kart psycho.”

Stella giggles. Her bouncy curls are still wet from the shower and they stick out in every direction, and when Paul sees her already bundled up in her Frozen pajamas he kinda wants to stay at home, tuck her in and watch MasterChef Junior together until she falls asleep curled against him.

Then he remembers certain twenty-three-year-old bloke (who bakes French bread for lunch and drives pink Cadillacs and knows all of Beyoncé choreographies by heart), and, well. A bit of well-deserved Friday night fun never hurt anyone, Paul supposes.

 

 

* 

 

 

If sharing a classroom with John Lennon on a weekly basis had been difficult so far, it’s nothing compared to three straight hours of sitting next to him, shoulder-to-shoulder, in the middle of a cramped lecture hall.

Paul wants to _die_.

Obviously, he doesn’t catch a single word about Wordsworth, keeps zoning out the poor bloke who’s in charge of the seminar in favour of looking at the way John’s camel coat fits snugly across his broad shoulders, at how his cream jumper gapes under his collarbones every time he leans forward on his chair.

So it’s not at all surprising that when John turns around and asks him, “Hey, did you write that down?” it takes Paul almost a minute to blurt out, “Uh, well, not really. I kinda—zoned out for a bit?”

If _for a bit_ actually means _two hours,_ John doesn’t have to know. “Yeah, me too,” he says, then takes his glasses off to rub his eyes for a moment. “No offence, Mr. McCartney, but Wordsworth is so bloody boring. Like, time-expanding levels of boring, too, I feel like I’ve been sitting here for ninety-two years or something.”

Paul laughs loudly enough that a man sitting in the row before them turns around and _glares._ “Maybe we could sneak out, you know? Check if the gallery is still open,” he offers, because he thinks it may be one of his life goals to never let John Lennon feel bored.

“I think they were already closing when we got in,” John says, voice low. “And there’s no possible way to—I mean, the Mona Lisa is in there, I think? Or something. It must be full of cameras and security wards.”

“The Mona Lisa is in _France_ , John,” Paul says, then adds with a shrug, “and who even cares about security wards?”

“Ooooh, are these your punk roots speaking?”

“Very funny. I’m just saying, with your looks and my brain we could totally fool anyone who—“

Two women turn around to death-glare at them now, a third one clears her throat, and Paul rolls his eyes in response because _really_ , they’re barely even _whispering_. John stands up before he can complain, though, mouths a silent, “C’mon, let’s go,” that has Paul on his feet and walking towards the door in less than half a second.

He’d probably follow John anywhere, he thinks.

 

 

 

“I would totally put this thing in the middle of my living-room.”

“It’s a six-feet-tall Lego sculpture of a neon pink cock, John.”

“Do you think the bathroom would be a better fit?”

Paul chuckles. “I think you’re completely nuts,” he says, crouching down to read the nametag attached at the base of the sculpture. “ _’Cock-blocked’_ , really? Someone took the time to arrange _seventeen bloody_ _thousand_ Legos into a _colossal_ _cock_ just to make a terrible pun?”

“Sounds like something you’d do,” John quips as he closes one eye, then the other, apparently to appreciate the masterpiece better.

“Ha-ha. My puns are not that bad,” Paul says. (It’s a blatant lie, and he knows it.)

The museum is closed to the public but John has somehow charmed two scary-looking security guards into allowing them inside, and he fakes a tour-guide voice as they walk through endless rooms with tall walls and dim lightning, makes up ridiculous stories about Picasso and Toulouse-Lautrec that have Paul doubling over in laughter.

“Okay, this one is actually true,” he declares when they’re standing in front of a replica of Auguste Rodin’s _The Eternal Springtime_. “This bloke once modeled a sculpture so realistic that people kinda thought he had killed a guy and covered him in bronze.”

“That’s… crazy.” Paul stops tracing the cold marble with his fingertips, turns around and says, “You know a lot about this stuff, don’t you?”

John shrugs. “I really liked art throughout school, I guess. It was my first option when I had to choose a major, too, but I switched to English at the last minute.”

“So you never thought of going to culinary school?” Paul asks. “Sounds like the obvious choice for you.”

Under the dim spotlights that line the ceiling John’s features seem gentler, soft-edges of golden yellow and cinnamon brown like a warm autumn afternoon – like Monet’s paintings, Paul thinks – and when he finally speaks his brow is furrowed, as if he’s considering every word, “Well, I did, but. I grew up with my aunt, you see? Like, she was the one who raised me, only the two of us, and she’s always wanted me to pursue English. So I thought, well—I like it, and I guess I sort of owe her because I was a terrible kid, and she totally could’ve thrown me out, but she didn’t,” he chuckles. “So I’m getting my degree half for her, half because I _do_ enjoy it. And that’s, you know—that’s fine by me.”

John pauses. For some reason, it doesn’t seem to Paul like he has finished his explanation yet, so he gives him a moment to think as they move onwards through a narrow hallway. The next room is lined with impressionist paintings of bright orange peaches, fields of red flowers and iridescent blue ocean waves hitting against rocks – they’re all strikingly beautiful and Paul feels a bit like he can’t look away. John must notice it, because he stands behind him and asks, “Which one’s your favourite?”

Paul’s light-brown Chelsea boots squelch against the tile floor when he turns around, and he stays silent for a moment, lets his gaze linger on the way the light behind John’s head makes him look like he’s got a halo of bouncy, tangled curls. This boy is so fucking _beautiful_ , with his cuddly sweater and his thick glasses sliding down his nose – nothing inside this place stands a _chance_ against him, really. Paul thinks he could put him on display next to Michelangelo’s and Renoir’s and Rembrandt’s, next to Van Gogh’s _Starry Night_ and the bloody golden leaves of Klimt’s _The Kiss_ , and John would still be the most breath-taking thing in the room.

But that’s not something Paul can just _say_ out loud, so, heart hammering wildly against his ribcage, he clears his throat and manages, “Uh, the one with—the ocean. Waves. Yeah. That one’s kinda cool, I guess.”

John just smiles at him, as genuine and endearing as always.

 

 

 

Paul’s got a takeaway box of fish and chips in one hand, a plastic fork in the other and both arms propped up on the cold rail of the Waterloo Bridge by the time John starts explaining his career choices again.

“The thing _is_ ,” he begins, waving his fork and the chip attached to it around, “Shakespeare and Brontë and T.S. Eliot are all pretty interesting guys, but at this point in my life I like banana bread better.”

There’s sparks of gold and blue and pink swaying in the dark water of the river below them, like the Thames is an immense mirror reflecting London’s bright skyline, and when Paul throws his head back to laugh he can see John’s cheeks flushing up from the cold.

“I think you’ve just nailed Stella’s life motto there, mate.” Paul smiles fondly. “You’re not going to use your degree, then? Like, at all?”

“Uh, nope. I’m gonna finish it, though,” John answers right away, swallows a mouthful of fish before adding, “and Elvis the Second and I are gonna move to—uh, I’ve always liked Ireland, or maybe Scotland? It could be anywhere, I guess. And we’ll settle in a little cabin and open a cat-friendly bakery.” He smiles back at Paul, eyes brighter than usual under the pale moonlight. “I’ll have a fruit garden and hit on Irish beauties and drink Baileys instead of water. That’s, uh, pretty much the plan.”

Paul crinkles his nose. “Baileys gets _awful_ after the first two sips, John, there’s no way you’ll be able to live on that. Scotch, though? Scotch’s better. I’ve always, uh, always wanted to live in Scotland, actually. That’d be the first place on my list if I were—”

“That’s it, then. Scotland! We’re moving,” John says simply, breaking out into a grin. He turns to lean his side against the rail so he can face Paul completely and adds, “You know? You’re, like, the only person I know who could totally pull off a bloody _kilt_ , Mr. McCartney. It’s probably time for you to take advantage of that.”

Laughter bubbling out of Paul’s chest, he shakes his head, mutters, “You’re completely, one-hundred-percent crazy, John Lennon.”

John just smiles at him, like he’s genuinely delighted that he’s made Paul laugh, and then they stay silent for a moment – there’s an old man playing the guitar a few meters away, the sound of faraway car honks and the splashing of waves below them, but John looks at Paul like Paul’s the only thing worth noticing, even when they’re standing in the middle of the Waterloo bridge and the moon above them seems to melt into the river.

Paul feels like he’s just swallowed a jar of butterflies instead of a cold serving of greasy fish-and-chips. “You know?” he begins, “You can call me Paul, yeah? Mr. McCartney makes me feel old. And ridiculous. And, well, I guess we’re way past a regular formal teacher-student relationship already, anyways. Also, you _do_ call me _mate_ and _idiot_ all the bloody time, so it makes no sense—“

John cuts him off with a chuckle and a quick, “Hi, Paul,” reaches for a handshake as he asks, “Where _are_ we, then? If, you know, if this isn’t your regular teacher-student relationship.”

Well, shit.

The question is unexpected but Paul is _cool_ , he tells himself, This Situation is a hundred percent under his control. Just to gain some time, he crouches, puts his empty paper plate in the takeaway bag they settled on the floor. “Oh— uhm,” he mumbles, eloquent as always. “Waterloo Bridge, Thames River, London, England?”

John doesn’t miss a beat. “Will you let me take you out on a date after we move to Scotland and settle in our little cabin, at least?”

Surprisingly, no butterflies fly out of Paul’s mouth when he giggles. “John,” he says, “You’re my university student.”

John shrugs. “I’ll drop off.”

“You are like ten years younger than me.”

“ _Nine_ ,” John corrects him, trying not to smile. “I’m a bit into older guys, yeah? Don’t judge me.”

They’re both so calm, Paul kinda wonders if these are the fruits of old Mrs. Hopkins’ acting lessons finally showing. “You’ll be sixty-one when I turn _seventy_ ,” Paul says, “That sounds, like, a huge difference and—”

“—you know? I like how you’re already betting on us to stay together for forty years—“

“—you’ll want to go _golfing_ or something, John, and I’ll probably be ready for a nursing home.”

John gasps in mock-outrage, clapping both hands at the sides of his face, “I am _not_ putting you in a nursing home, Paul McCartney.”

“I groan when I stand up from the couch. I’m _that_ old. My back aches all. The. Time, too,” Paul argues. “Every time I try to take a pic with the phone I end up recording a video instead. My computer is a mess, too, because I don’t know how to create a _thing_ to store my other _things_ into—“

“You mean, like, a folder?”

“A bloody _folder_. Yeah,” Paul huffs.

John chuckles. “I think that’s not about you being old, you know, I’ve met plenty of people your age who are great with technology and—“

“Then there’s the thing about me having a five-year-old kid,” Paul interrupts him. “There are nursery meetings to attend and awful WhatsApp groups and _so much glitter_ , John, you wouldn’t _believe_. I’m also wearing make-up at home half the time because Ella watches too many YouTube tutorials, and there’s apparently something called ladder braid which I can’t figure out, and I still haven’t gotten around to teach her how to ride a bike because I suck at bikes.” He sighs. “I wouldn’t trade it for the world, but. I’m sort of a mess, and. I mean, this is probably not the kind of relationship you should try to get into while you’re in your twenties.”

Paul feels heat flooding up his face, suspects that he’s pretty much the dictionary definition of _uncool_ right now. A small smile curls up the corners of John’s mouth, though, and his voice is low when he says, “I can ask Mr. Epstein for a schedule change, yeah? And I’ll set up all the folders you want in your computer. We’ll color-code them. I’ll let Ella do my make-up, and we’ll figure out that weird braid thing, and I can teach _both_ of you how to ride bikes. And _then_ , if you want, I’m gonna take you on the best goddamn date in the whole world,” he smiles. “Sounds okay?”

John’s eyes are bright behind his glasses, his cheeks and nose blotchy from the cold, and Paul thinks nobody is supposed to be this fucking good-looking – especially not when he’s a literal step away from doing something Very Stupid (and potentially job-threatening), like starting to shut attractive people up with kisses. Biting his lip around a smile, Paul murmurs, “I’ll think about it.”

John beams at him instantly, hair windswept and lips cherry red, and Paul has to hold back a dreamy sigh, feels kinda light-headed with endearment for a moment.

Maybe, just maybe, he _is_ falling a little bit in love with this boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this thing is FINALLY up! Sorry for the looong wait you guys, I had some really busy weeks - thank you a LOT for all your comments, they really made me feel better about this when I felt like i was taking too long and it was going nowhere!  
> Two things: 1. I know some of you download the PDFs of the stories to read later (that's what I do!) and I wanted to give you a heads-up that I edited some minor things in the previous chapters, so you may want to download them again if you want to save them (nothing important, and obviously nothing that changes the plot, but still. typos and such!)  
> 2\. Stella's mum is still a mystery! :O For those who came by my tumblr to ask me about her, her story will be told later - for now, there's a tinyyy clue about her job hidden in this chapter :) (can you spot it????)  
> I hope you have a woooooonderful week and please, please comment! I want to know what you think of this chapter :) This is my [tumblr](toppermostofthepoppermost.tumblr.com) if you wanna add me or anything. Hugs for all of you!!!


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

 

 

 

“Really, mate?” Ivan asks. “‘I’m sort of a mess’? _Really_?”

“Word for word. Ugh.”

Without looking away from the half-burnt veggie barbecue he’s currently trying to bring back to life, George wrinkles his nose, says, “So you basically spilled your guts to the bloke, like. Hardcore movie-speech level.”

Paul rests his cheek on the wooden table and _whines_. Loudly. He has been whining all morning, actually. “Fucking _Nicholas Sparks_ level. Totally disgusting.”

“You know,” Ivan begins. He’s alternating between cutting hamburger buns in half and monitoring Stella and Pattie’s football match at the back of the Harrison’s yard. “In the romantic comedy marathon that is your life—“

“PG-rated marathon,” George butts in.

Pointing at George, Ivan corrects, “ _PG-rated_ marathon—this John guy might be, like, your Richard Gere or Ryan Gosling or something.”

Paul rolls his eyes. “More like he’s Leonardo DiCaprio and my job is the Titanic.”

George turns around to grab the tray full of buns and starts to prepare the hamburgers, like eating lunch is more important than Paul’s existential crisis or something. “Is he still texting you?”

“You mean John?”

“No, you idiot, I mean Ryan Gosling,” George huffs. “Of _course_ I’m talking about John.”

“He texted me like, uh, half an hour ago? I gotta answer him, I guess, it’s just, I told him my back was killing me and he offered me massages and I don’t know—“

“Are you kidding me?” Ivan interrupts him. “Back massages. Even after your stupid love declaration, he’s willing to give you back massages? The guy is probably in love with you or something, mate, I don’t _get_ why you’re sitting here whining to us about the Titanic when you could be fucking him into tomorrow.”

George laughs. “God forbid Paul McCartney does anything the easy way, Van.”

“Oh, sod off, both of you. Worst best friends _ever_ ,” Paul complains. “You’re acting like shagging the bloke wouldn’t be both morally questionable _and_ probably _illegal_ ; we’ve literally gone over this a hundred times—”

His rant is cut off when Stella’s Finding Nemo football hits him square in the back of the head. Ivan laughs at him, and. Well. Paul thinks he might deserve it.

As she reaches the table, Pattie mumbles, a bit out of breath, “Shit, Jamie, sorry, mate!” then picks up the ball and carefully throws it back to Stella. She stops to lean on Paul’s side for a moment, grabbing his beer and giving it a sip before asking, “Are you guys still talking about John?”

Paul groans and plants his face on Pattie’s belly. When he speaks, it’s muffled by her ugly, two-sizes-too-big Back to the Future sweater. “He wants to give me back massages. And teach Ella to ride her bike. And he told me he was heading out for a run, Pat—the bloke _works out_. He’s on a stupid running team or something, too. I swear God is testing me.”

Apparently, Pattie is the only reasonable person in their bi-weekly Saturday brunch, because she pats Paul’s head and says, “Aw, babe, I get you. It sounds like sex with him would be totally athletic.”

Paul sighs dreamily. “ _And_ he’d probably cook something fancy for me after,” he adds.

Gesturing to the already half-full tray that sits on the grill’s side-table, George starts to say, “I am literally making vegetarian hamburgers for you both _as we speak_ —“ but, thankfully, Ivan throws a bun of bread to his face and cuts his complaints short.

 

 

*

 

 

Paul is approximately three seconds away from hyperventilating. Meanwhile, John is getting his nails done. Such is life in the McCartney household, apparently.

“I think the pink one,” John says, pointing five short fingernails in Stella’s direction.

“Regular pink or sparkly pink?”

“Sparkly, obviously.”

As he settles the freshly-baked apple pie over the only nail-polish-free bit of table left, Paul takes a deep, uneven breath. It’s only two hours until John’s _Titus Andronicus_ play presentation (like, the Official Thing), and _of course_ their last rehearsal meeting turned into Stella and John baking a pie and painting flowers on each other’s nails.

But this is Fine. Paul won’t freak out over nail polish – he refuses to. It’s not like John and Ella are _bonding_ or anything. And if John offered to give them a ride to George’s house, where Paul will be dropping Stella off before the play, that is also probably a Very Normal thing for a student and a teacher to do, Paul tells himself.

“So a ham sandwich walks into a bar—“

“I think ham is, like, an animal, Johnny.”

“Yes, it is,” John chuckles. “Does a Nutella sandwich sound any better?”

“Yes!” Stella _beams_. Paul just sips on his chamomile tea like he’s not currently having a silent meltdown. He’s been doing that a lot.

“So a Nutella sandwich walks into a bar,” John begins again, “and orders a _veggie_ pizza, but the bartender tells him, ‘Sorry, mate, we don’t serve food here!’”

There’s a moment of silence and then Paul mumbles, “I don’t really get it, Johnny.”

Stella stops painting the general area of John’s nails to look up and frown at him, her head cocked to one side and a hand toying with her bottom lip like she’s Galileo attempting to decipher the principles of Physics and not a five-year-old trying to get a joke. “I’ve never saw a sandwich walking into a bar.”

“Never _seen_ , Ella—”

“It’s a _hypothetical_ walking sandwich, okay? Like—you gotta imagine it. Also, you’ve probably never even _been_ to a bar, Ells, so what would _you_ know?” John insists, crossing his arms. He’s also a five-year-old, apparently.

Shaking her head, Stella adds, “Yeah, no. Still don’t get it, Jay.”

Paul chuckles. John groans, loud and over-dramatic, and the gold glitter on his cheeks sparkles a bit when he throws his head back. “The sandwich asks for a _pizza_ , right? And the bartender tells him, ‘We don’t serve _food_ here, mate!’ Like—not because they don’t _have_ pizza, but because the sandwich is _actual food_ , and—it’s a play on words, you guys—“

When Stella finally gets it, her face lits up and she almost falls down her chair with laughter, and Paul rolls his eyes at John because—“That’s an awful joke.”

Smirking, John asks, “Why are you smiling, then?”

And—really?

Paul is smiling because, apparently, all it takes is one stupid joke from John to make him momentarily regain some of his composure. He smiles because John looks like he’s fucking _glowing_ under the dim orange light of the living-room, young and beautiful and soft around the edges, and it was abnormally hot all day today, but now the sky is almost purple and the windows of the flat are open, a chilly air blowing in, and the whole house smells like cinnamon. He’s smiling because the sleeves of John’s ridiculous flamingo shirt are rolled half-way up his arms and he’s got a string of tiny temporal tattoos lining his skin (Stella’s doing), and Stella’s hair is up in a messy ladder-braid and each of her nails is a painted different colour (John’s doing) – so, really, Paul smiles because he is so, so _grateful_ it feels a bit like his chest isn’t big enough to hold it all in.

He finally settles for, “Nothing, it’s just. I like you in eyeshadow.”

 

 

*

 

 

Some kind of God must be watching upon King’s College theatre group because, against all odds, their frankly bat-shit crazy idea of setting up an outdoor stage in the last week of October turned out to be _brilliant_ \- the night is cloudless and there’s only a slight cold bite to the wind swaying the plastic leaves of the trees set as decoration. Everything the kids from the scenography course touch turns into gold, too, apparently, because the stage is frankly impressive – _we made the fake blood with, like, food coloring and corn syrup, I think, because Mrs. Hopkins wanted it to be ‘realistic’_ , one of the students tells Paul, making air quotes as he speaks, _and it turns out Mrs. Irvin, that’s the wife of the cousin of Jake’s grandma, she owns a light store—it’s called_ Fifty Shades of Light _, Mr. McCartney, can you believe? The woman is like eighty-three—so Hailey S. baked a cake for her and she gave us a sixty percent discount on the Christmas lights,_ he explains, _which was a lifesaver because we spent half our budget in, like, actual legit_ fresh _flowers for this, Nicky just picked them up from the florist like two hours ago, don’t you just_ love _the smell of carnations?_

Nine o’clock finds Paul sitting in the first of twenty-five neatly arranged rows at the back of the campus, watching Demetrius, also known as John, parade around the stage in nothing but a pair of tight leather pants. There are worse ways to spend a Friday night.

The first part of the play is divided in long intervals of him staring at John’s arse and short bursts of self-respect where he tries to engage with what’s actually happening _around_ John’s arse. It’s a hard task, but the comedic twist Mrs. Hopkins gave to the script is unique and unexpected, and everyone sitting behind Paul (distinguished professors and journalists and people with actual PhDs in Shakespeare Studies) is going crazy over it. Also, John—

John is truly something else.

As the scenes go by, Paul actually stops staring at the combination of John’s naked chest and leather-cladded legs and starts noticing how he _acts_. Demetrius is loud and jumpy and _completely nuts_ and John is _brilliant_ at it, surprisingly professional, intones every word perfectly and moves around the stage like it’s his home. And if Paul laughs at his lines a bit louder than he does at any other of his students’, well. That’s his secret to keep.

(If he’s trying not to get hard by the end of the play and failing terribly at it, then that’s also his secret. He _hopes_.)

The standing applause goes on even after the curtains of the stage have closed, and then there’s laughter and lots of talking and everyone around Paul seems to be buzzing with the excitement of the play. He’s called for pictures with the entire group of students, along with Mrs. Hopkins and Mr. Lopez, the scenography professor, and the thirty or so of them huddle to take a selfie in the middle of the stage, between huge fake rocks and fresh carnations and puddles of corn-syrupy blood.

Because this is the last play of the year and the campus is a sea of known faces and distinguished surnames, there’s a reception waiting for them inside, full with champagne glasses and petit-fours and way more waiters than anyone could need. Paul is not one for glamorous food and elevator music, would rather be outside, really, helping the few kids who stayed behind to dismantle the stage, so he walks around just long enough to snatch a glass of coke and then slips through the back door.

The wind has picked up a bit and there’s a phone somewhere playing what Paul thinks is an Arctic Monkeys song, and Nicky high-fives him when she walks by with a weird tangled-up assortment of neon bendy straws, feather boas and Styrofoam balls that may’ve once been part of a solar system model. There are a couple of kids from scenography stacking up the chairs and Hannah, the girl who played Lavinia, is uselessly trying to brush knots of syrup off her hair.

It goes like this, at first: When Paul walks around to the back of the stage, it’s to find John all alone, wrapping a long cord of Christmas lights. Paul tries to take a minute to compose himself _(don’t do the heart-eyes thing, don’t do the heart-eyes thing)_ but John turns around and spots him before he can manage to stop smiling, and in two seconds the lights are on the floor and John is climbing down the stage and they’re _hugging_.

After the hug, it’s like this: There’s a slow, acoustic song playing far behind them, and Paul listens to it as he watches John snatch his glass of coke and down it in one gulp – _hold my hand, hold my heart._ In his leather pants and flamingo shirt and carrying an absurd amount of fake blood on his quiff, John looks blinding and beautiful and more than a little bit crazy, and Paul is so, so _proud_ of him.

“—And then Marianne B. and that guy, uh, I think his name's Matt, the one with the blue hair and the Pokémon tattoos? They were behind the stage, and she was wearing a _poncho_ —and, you know how when you eat a pot brownie, uh, it takes a lot for it to kick in and then it’s like it hits you all at once?”

Paul has had less trouble following Stella’s ramblings than he’s having with John’s right now, though. “Yeah?”

“Well,” John continues, looking thoroughly amused, “Jessica K. brought some of them _right_ before the play, because she’s like eighteen or something _,_ probably, and Marianne B. and Blue Hair Guy ate, like, a _dozen_ of them. So they were _super_ high, and when I was just in the middle of The Most Important Line, I looked behind the stage and she had a poncho on, and Blue Hair had this weird…yellow boa thing—they were trying to read the script under the Christmas lights, and every time they flicked off they were like _fuck, you guys, what’s up with the blackouts_? And Christ, Macca, I got the fucking laughing fit of the year.”

Paul dissolves into a small laughing fit himself, and he’s laughing still when John continues, “So, yeah, I kinda messed up that one line, but I don’t think anyone noticed. _Also_ —” he begins again, “How _awesome_ are the scenography kids, really? Like, we had _fresh carnations_ , P. And, you know, apparently the wife of the cousin of Jake’s granny, what’s her name—she owns a light store—“

The thing is, this is the third time Paul hears about The Unbelievable Discount We Got on the Christmas Lights in less than two hours, and against the grey-blue sky John looks so tall and so solid and so _close_ , his lips shiny and his hair pointing to ten different directions, Paul thinks for a fleeting second that he could just lean in and kiss him. “John.”

“—Mrs. Irvin, _that_ was it, one of the girls baked a cake for her—oh, God, I hope it wasn’t Jessica K., because Mrs. Irvin is like two hundred years old and I know pot is relatively healthy, but I wouldn’t want my grandma high out of her mind on _brownies_ —“

“John.”

“—not that I’m against old people smoking—or, you know, _ingesting_ or anything, to each their own, I read medical marijuana is—“

“ _John_.”

“—very helpful for, well, arthritis—sorry, you said anything?”

(The moment before it happens, it’s like this: with nerves fluttering low in his stomach and a heavy knot settling at the base of his throat, Paul catches snippets of the song playing behind them, _faith, heart, darling, home,_ and he steps forward and John doesn’t step backwards—John, with Stella’s temporal tattoos still inked onto his forearm and hot pink nail polish sparkling every time he moves his hands.)

“I, uh.” Paul mumbles. “I’m gonna kiss you, I think. Like, right now, if that’s okay.”

It’s out there, now, and Paul can’t breathe.

“Definitely okay,” John says, laughing a bit dazedly. He smiles down at Paul’s lips and _God_ , Paul has kissed a million people a million times, but none of them were John Lennon.

“Right. Okay. I’ll do it.”

“Right, okay,” John echoes, above the slight wind and the soft music.

They’re alone here, at the back of the stage, the air growing thick and electric around them, and every thought in Paul’s head but _JohnJohnJohnJohn_ dies on the spot as he leaps forward, pulls John closer by his waist and then finally, finally kisses him.

It’s hard and deep and strong and _really happening_ —John kisses him back like it’s been hell on Earth waiting almost two months to have _this_ , groans into Paul’s mouth not like he’s asking a question but like he’s giving an answer, like he’s making a _promise._ He kisses firmly, dragging short, sparkly nails down the back of Paul’s neck, fisting at his hair to bring him closer—Paul hums low in approval, wants, wants, wants, and the kiss is urgent and hard-breathed until it’s not, until it’s steady and slow and Paul’s lungs begin to burn.

When he pulls away, gently, it feels a bit like a dam has broken. “Hi,” Paul says, grinning.

“Hey,” John says back, all messy hair and shiny lips. “I like you so fucking much,” he adds, grabbing Paul’s face so he can kiss him again—his teeth meet the skin of Paul’s bottom lip and Paul lets himself sink into it, relaxed, lets John nudge his mouth open with his tongue and pin him there like they’ve all the time in the world.

It works, as it turns out—Paul loses track of how long they stay snogging between red carnations and Christmas lights, but when John finally steps back and perches up playfully on the edge of the stage, grinning as fresh and genuine as always, Paul notices that his lips feel kinda numb and their surroundings are kinda quiet, no one strumming a tune in Mr. Lopez’s acoustic anymore.

Now that Paul knows how John’s stubble feels against his face, though, knows how John smiles when he kisses (wide and giddy, that is), he doesn’t feel like being anywhere but near him. “Stella’s having a sleepover at George’s, you know,” he blurts out. (Of course John knows, he _drove them to George’s,_ waved excitedly hello to Pattie from inside the Cadillac and all, but Paul has just been given what was arguably the best kiss of his life and his thoughts are kinda clouded.) “We could—uh. Go somewhere? Like, I don’t mean—don’t get me wrong, just, we should get out of here, probably—”

“Sorry, babe, I don’t put out before the first date,” John says, voice low, taking advantage of his sitting position to hook both legs around Paul’s frame and pull him closer. He smirks, lips a little red and a little bruised, and Paul is pretty sure he has broken his own record number of consecutive hours being hard.

“Oh, you don’t?” he says, shrugging and not sounding nearly as confident as he’d like. “Well, kid, me neither.”

(This is a lie. Right now, Paul McCartney would probably walk barefoot over shards of broken glass just to, like, see a black-and-white copy of a blurry picture of John’s arse. Of _course_ he’d put out before the first date.)

The two of them stare at each other in mock-serious silence for a moment, biting their lips to keep from laughing, until it’s John who can’t hold it in anymore and throws his head back, barking out a laugh for the whole campus to hear. “Coming from a former drama teacher, that performance was kind of a letdown, honestly,” he says (Paul rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling.) “You could come to my place, if you want? There’s a 24-hour Asda near The Cut, we could swing by and buy something to cook dinner with—I’m _starving_.”

Paul tries to look like he’s at least thinking the offer through for a moment, like John hasn’t just asked exactly what he wanted to hear, then nods in agreement with a, “yeah, okay. Now I’m gonna race you to the car.”

John frowns, begins to mutter _what you mean race me—_ but Paul’s sprinting off with a head-start before he can finish his question. Laughing madly, John jumps off the stage to hurry after him, the forgotten Christmas lights blinking in the distance and silhouetting him with fuzzy golden dots.

 

 

  

It’s… shockingly domestic, is the thing.

There’s a cashier flicking idly through a porn mag that he’s holding upside down, a group of girls stacking cans of beer in two trolleys like they’re playing a timed battle of Tetris and young couple carrying a handful of eco-friendly bags filled with diapers plus a baby that won’t stop crying—but Paul only sees John.

“If a zombie apocalypse ever _happens_ to begin with, I think my go-to plan would be to hide in an Asda and live off Sour Cream Pringles and Chocolate Therapy,” John trails off as he scans the ice-cream shelf.

They’re standing in the middle of the frozen foods aisle, debating whether the six pack of root beer they just found on offer goes well enough with a pint of Ben and Jerry’s or if, just this once, they should act like respectable adults and cook real food for their late-night-early-morning-snack.

After a moment of through consideration, Paul says, “Yeah, Chocolate Therapy for the beer.”

“Yay!” John half-lifts his fist in triumph, then grabs a pint of Ben and Jerry’s and tosses it in the trolley. “And for the zombie apocalypse?”

“Microwave pizzas, obviously.”

It’s only ten minutes later, when they’ve thoroughly stocked themselves—John’s picked up a family-sized block of Cadbury, a can of Pringles and an absurd amount of low-calorie granola bars _to, like, compensate, Macca_ —that John remembers that he’s out of toothpaste, and wine, and instant noodles, and cat food.

“Organic cat food,” Paul chuckles. “Really. I just saw you pick up a €2.99 box of Asda wine, but— _organic cat food_.”

“Priorities,” John says simply, adding a purple pack of Whiskas that looks more expensive than Paul’s best suitcase to their carefully-curated selection of products. “Elvis the Second’s got—“

“Too high standards for a cat?”

“A _great palate_. Also, I’m on a budget, and every wine is good wine after the first two glasses,” John says with a wink as he pushes the trolley down to the far side of the store, stopping when they reach a red ‘MEAL SOLUTIONS’ sign that hangs from the ceiling.

And _Christ_ , it feels a bit like Paul’s heart could break just from how fucking _cute_ John looks as he squints to read the label on a loaf of integral bread with God knows how many seeds in it ( _Ringo’s trying to go gluten-free,_ he tells Paul, _which I think is pretty fucking stupid, honestly, he lives with a_ baker)—under the fluorescent lights his eyes are a light hazel, his lips a deep red, and when Paul moves forward to press his chest against John’s back and hug him by the waist, John’s grin is bright and pure and perfect, his body falling back easily against Paul’s.

“I think I’m done with the shopping,” John says, pressing his face to the crook of Paul’s neck to hide a smile. “Let’s pay for this stupid bread and go home now.”

“Yeah, okay,” Paul nods. He combs a hand through John’s hair, makes him look up gently and then kisses him once more—soft and effortless—before heading to the register.

 

 

 

Only when he’s sitting on the middle of John’s yellow couch, eating half-melted ice-cream from a plastic _ESPRESSO PATRONUM_ mug and waiting for John to take an allegedly quick shower, does Paul actually realize that he is, in fact, at a student’s apartment—on a Friday night, at like half past one in the morning.

He may also have just kissed said student. He’s kinda fucked.

As he takes in the room—there’s a small telly playing the Mean Girls DVD menu in an endless loop, a copy of _The Sanford Guide to Antimicrobial Therapy_ sandwiched between the coffee table and a translucent-blue joystick, an empty heart-shaped cat bed and, cutting through the creamy-white of the opposite wall, a large hot-pink poster of Britney Spears with BABY ONE MORE TIME written across it in black Sharpie—he wonders if maybe he shouldn’t have taken up the offer to come back here, to the lovely place of the loveliest boy he’s ever shared lame Shakespeare jokes with. The thought presses at his chest when he sends George a heads-up message with directions to John’s flat in case Stella needs anything; lingers there unforgivingly while he hears the water stop running, the bathroom’s door opening and closing, John’s footsteps treading down the hall.

And then—

Then it just.

Stops.

“Hey,” John calls after he appears on the doorframe, with a green towel draped across his shoulders. “Sorry I took so long; it turns out food coloring is a bit water-resistant.”

He’s got a pair of grey cotton joggers on that fit snugly around his ankles and ride stupidly low on his hips, and a strip of smooth skin peeks out from below his one-size-too-small white t-shirt. Paul’s life is tragic. “’S okay,” he manages—a bit breathless, because John’s eyes are boring into him as he crosses the living-room. “I just looked through your roommate’s weird medicine atlas and—“

And then there’s John, plopping on Paul’s lap as soon as he reaches him, crowding him up against the couch, and Paul—Paul wasn’t ready for that.

“Hey,” Paul breathes.

“Hey yourself,” John says, eyes dark behind his glasses as they roam Paul’s face. “Tell me what you’re thinking about.”

John’s thighs feel big and solid where they’re squeezing at Paul’s waist, and when he leans in, gently, to press their foreheads together, his skin is lovely, soft and warm from the shower, and Paul wants to tell him _about_ _you, obviously,_ but he sucks at being straight-forward unless it’s written down in a script.

“You tell me first, kid,” he ends up saying—in a whisper, because they’re so, so close that the specks of water falling off John’s hair land on Paul’s shirt, right above his collarbones. John just smirks at him, then closes his eyes, then kisses him for an answer.

He tastes fresh like mint, smells sweet like soap and kisses like he’s drowning and Paul is his lifeline, filthy and messy and hard-breathed. Paul doesn’t hesitate to arch up into it, either; he fists at John’s hair roughly, brings him down, down, down, licks inside his mouth and _wants_.

It’s a bit overwhelming, how utterly responsive John is to him, sucking at Paul’s tongue and biting hungry bruises into his bottom lip—his hands are strong where they hold onto Paul’s waist, his eyes are closed with intent and he looks so worked-up already Paul kind of forgets how to breathe. He can’t think much past the fact that John is _here_ , either, drawing his face back a bit to nibble at the column of Paul’s neck, rolling his hips like he can’t help himself, and—okay. That is.

Just really fucking hot.

Paul grinds up slightly, meets John in the middle, and his mind swims red as they fall into a messy rhythm, the line of John’s cock digging into his thigh through those _stupid_ joggers.

“John. Shirt off, baby.” The words tumble out of his mouth roughly, before he can think twice about them, but John seems utterly compliant, leans back a bit so he can grab the hem of his t-shirt and breathes out a hoarse _yes_ before tugging it over. “Good boy,” Paul praises, staring in awe at how insanely _fit_ John really is this up close, the muscles on his belly pulled taut and his biceps bulging when he settles one arm at each side of Paul’s head.

“Your good boy,” John mumbles.

It goes straight to Paul’s cock, makes him stop moving altogether to look up at this stunning _creature_ that’s grinding over him like he was put on Earth to give lap dances. “Whose again, love?”

“Yours, yours,” John chants, voice broken. “Only yours, daddy.”

Jesus fucking _Christ_. Paul wasn’t expecting _that_. It sends a shock of white-hot pleasure down his spine, makes him involuntarily buck up his hips. “Fuck, _John_ ,” he breathes out. “Bedroom. Now.”

John hooks both legs around Paul’s middle instantly, lets Paul pick him up and whispers directions against his mouth between soft sounds and hard kisses _—down the hall, door to your left, c’mon, please, hurry._ His fingers pop out the buttons of Paul’s shirt easily as Paul carries him, and when they get to his bed he splays down under Paul and unceremoniously slides his own joggers off.

Paul’s pretty positive he’ll never recover from the sight of John Lennon Actual Real John Lennon in White Boxer Briefs, Hard. He’s gonna die, like, now, possibly. (Without even coming first. How embarrassing.)

Despite this, he manages a sharp turn of his wrist to grab John’s when he sees him taking off his glasses. “No. You’ll keep those on,” Paul orders, and John positively _scrambles_ to put the glasses on again. _God._ He’s apparently very into Paul bossing him around, and, well. It makes Paul feel ten degrees hotter. “There you go, love. So good for me.”

“Want—need you. Inside,” John whimpers. He tugs Paul’s jeans down, then throws them off the bed with the heel of his foot, then frames Paul’s waist with his legs to draw him closer, and Paul has a moment of blind panic because he hasn’t had sex in _months_ and might come in just about five seconds, completely untouched, from watching John’s body wiggling under him alone.

(This is a Very Important Moment, though, so Paul closes his eyes, takes two deep, calming breaths, and pretends he still has at least some control over himself.)

“Look at you. So worked up already, aren’t you?” he says then, placing the hand that isn’t holding him up along John’s jaw, fitting his thumb in the dip below John’s bottom lip. “Ask _nicely_ , love.”

John _whines_. Paul might be feeling a bit mad with power. “Need you to fuck me, _please,_ ” he whispers urgently. “Please, been waiting for so long—”

“I’m gonna eat you out, first,” Paul cuts him off, his voice soft against John’s mouth. “And then I’m gonna fuck you open with my fingers. Got it?”

“Yes, yes,” John mumbles. He lets his legs fall to the mattress, spreads them wide to accommodate Paul. “Fuck, this is, like, so fucking hot, honestly.”

That draws a breathless laugh out of Paul and he pulls John in for a long kiss—kisses him softer, this time, lazier, kisses him for the good morning texts and the ridiculous rides in ridiculous cars and the endless attempts at teaching Paul to type in lower caps, for always bringing Ella the freshest muffins and for his love of Elvis and for the inordinate amount of daily endearment, kisses him and kisses him and kisses him until John’s back is arched, his hips lifting off the bed to grind against Paul, and Paul thinks he won’t survive _that_ for much longer.

Hooking his fingers on the waistband of John’s briefs, Paul slides them down slowly, then settles between John’s legs, and _shit_ , okay, that’s John Lennon Actual Real John Lennon’s Very Nice Cock against his cheek. He may hump the mattress a little bit.

“So pretty,” Paul whispers, sliding both hands under John to cup his arse and lift him up a bit. Four hours ago, he was staring in self-admitted longing at this same arse, which might just be the most glorious one he’s ever been about to fuck in his fifteen years of being sexually active, he thinks, thick and perky and smooth, and now he’s here, nearly scratching it red with his stubble. Life is truly a wonderful thing. “Hook your legs around my shoulders now.”

“Yes,” John says, rushing to settle his legs by the sides of Paul’s neck.

He lies down on his front, at first, starts trailing open-mouthed kisses from the back of John’s knee up to his hips, sucks hard bruises on the underside of John’s thighs, and John closes his eyes and _squirms_ under him, taking soft, shallow breaths that echo throughout the room. It’s a good thing—helps Paul focus on something else besides his own cock smearing precome onto the mattress and how easy it’d be to just _grind down_.

Once he’s got John nice and relaxed against him, Paul lowers himself a bit, then starts lapping his tongue tentatively over John’s rim. There’s a low moan and a hand curling tightly the sheets next to Paul’s head and a deep, broken, “ _Fuck_ , Paul, nobody’s _ever_ —more, _please_ —“

And, well. Shit. Paul looks up, blinks a bit dazedly. “Nobody’s ever what, baby?”

He can feel John’s calf shaking as he bends his knee, how his long toes tangle easily in Paul’s thick hair. “Done _that_.”

Okay. _Okay._ So John Lennon and his mind-blowing amount of arse have never gotten eaten out. That’s…frankly unacceptable, Paul thinks. “You liked it, just now?”

“ _Yes_ ,” John breathes out, “fucking _amazing_.”

John has been drop dead _gorgeous_ to Paul since day one—he’s beautiful in their morning classes, with his curls matted and his skin soft from sleep; stunning in the afternoon when Paul and Ella swing by the bakery, with his apron specked full of dried dough and a bandana on his head; every last bit devastating each evening he and Paul get together to _not_ revise his thesis, with his ripped jeans, flannel shirt and leather jacket on—but _now_ , with his thighs on Paul’s shoulders and a hand tugging at his own hair, pliant and trusting and utterly torn-up over this, he looks like the hottest thing Paul has ever seen.

It’s even worse when he wiggles his hips a bit and says, “C’mon, _daddy_.”

Paul wants to break him apart.

He goes down slowly, eyes closed and thumbs digging into John’s thighs, takes his time to lick up and down John’s rim and get him wet. John tries his best to stay still through it, bless him, until Paul starts to gradually swirl his tongue deeper and he fucking _loses_ it, a string of “fuck, Macca, how—Jesus fucking Christ, love, Paul, Paul, Paul,” falling from his lips. It’s hot, hot, hot, how uninhibited he is, lifting his hips again and again in futile attempts at getting _closer_ , but it makes it impossible for Paul to find a comfortable angle and he hasn’t even properly rimmed him yet.

Pining him back against the bed, Paul grunts out, “John. I’m gonna hold you down, okay? Need you to be a good boy and stay in place for me.”

John’s cock _twitches_. “Yes, daddy, ‘m sorry, I’ll be good.”

(He’s still tugging at his own hair. Of course it had to be John Lennon, of all people, with his flowered jackets and rainbow cupcakes and roadtrip playlists, the one who turned out to be fucking kinky as all fuck. Paul is so hard it’s making him dizzy.)

When Paul sinks lower again, he keeps John pinned down through it, and it’s better, like this, lets him find the exact spot that makes John cry out _fuck_ and _please_ and _Christ, Macca_. Also, John’s got one strong foot planted on Paul’s back and the other tangled in his hair, but even now, with his cock already leaking precome onto his stomach, he’s careful not to push Paul in at all. He somehow manages to be _endearing_ while getting a _rim job_. Paul might be a bit in love.

“You’re so loud, baby,” Paul tells him when he pulls back. “Makes me feel so lucky, that I get to hear you like this.” Holding John’s legs up to keep them around him, he sits back on his heels and lands a kiss on John’s ankle before adding, “I’m gonna need some lube, now.”

“No, ’m good. Really. I’m ready,” John breathes out. “Please, just, I don’t need—I don’t _care_ —“

“You’ll care in the morning, love, c’mon.”

John groans, but he opens his eyes and stops fisting at his hair and turns around to search frantically for the lube inside his drawer. “Here,” he declares after a moment, digging up a tangled-up mess of charger cords, headphones and condom strips that has a half-empty bottle of lube stuck in the middle. He pulls it out, tosses it to Paul along with the condoms, then lies down again and _sighs_. “But I’m gonna come,” he warns. “If you finger me.”

Biting back a smile, Paul pops the bottle open and slicks his fingers. “I thought that was, like, the whole point?” he teases. He’s oddly proud that John has made it this far _without_ coming, honestly, can _feel_ how much John is holding himself back—he’s rock hard, stomach pulled taut and panting under him. “Give me your hand, love. Want you to help me with this.”

John tries to groan, but the sound that comes out is closer to a low moan. “Want your _cock_ ,” he says reproachfully, like he needs that to be completely clear, but sticks his hand out for Paul anyway. “I’m probably literally going to cry if I come now and then you don’t shag me, Macca.”

Paul laughs as he drizzles the lube on John’s fingers. “Gonna make you come twice, then, love,” he reassures him, capping the bottle shut and tossing it aside. “Fuck you through it.”

“ _Christ._ Okay,” John agrees then, a bit breathless, reaching down blindly until his index finger is ghosting over his rim.

The visual is mesmerizing enough that Paul hears _himself_ moan. It’s ridiculous. His throat feels dry and by the time John’s pushing his long finger into his own arse, his cock jumping instantly in response, he’s actually pretty sure his brain shorts out for a couple of seconds.

“Baby,” he mumbles. This might very well be his tipping point. “Fuck, Johnny, I wanna—”

He slides his dry hand down, starts palming himself through his boxers, and _why the fuck is he still wearing boxers_? Paul doesn’t know. He thinks he hasn’t actually breathed in a while, too. Shit. At the rate his night has been going, he _is_ gonna die with a hard-on after all.

“C’mon, love,” John calls him.

It brings Paul back a bit, lets him distance himself from the blood roaring in his ears and the sparks going down his spine, but he’s still feeling too close to the edge when he slips a finger next to John’s. Paul takes a deep breath, because he’s not coming in his stupid _boxers_ , and hears John do the same as his body adjusts to the new intrusion.

John is beautiful—all bunched-up muscles and hot skin, bicep bulging with the steady rhythm of his right arm, impossibly tight around Paul’s finger. He fucks himself slowly, lets out long, deep moans, and Paul wants him _so much_ he’s nearly shaking with it. “One more,” he tells John. “Don’t wanna hurt you.”

Paul wants to touch him. Paul wants to lay himself down over John and fuck him into the mattress and take him to dinner and write him a play. He wants to ask him about his zodiac sign and his first crush and his favourite fruit and his mum’s name; wants to make him come all over himself and buy him sweaters and kiss him in the middle of a crowded street.

His brain is looping through that last thought when John looks up at him and mumbles, “Kiss.”

It feels like Paul’s heart is trying to squirm out of his chest. He slides between John’s legs, careful with the fingers that he’s still scissoring inside him—John lifts his free hand to grab Paul’s neck and pull him closer, closer, sucking on Paul’s lips as the rhythm of his hips grows erratic, and they kiss and kiss and kiss until John is moaning inside Paul’s mouth, “I’m gonna—can I— _please_ —”

“Let go, baby,” Paul tells him. “I’ve got you.”

And then John is coming untouched all over his stomach, chanting _fuck love like you so much Macca yours yours yours,_ burying his face between the pillow and Paul’s head. Paul pulls his fingers gently out of him, then lands a kiss on John’s pulse point and stays nuzzled against John’s neck for a moment before scrambling into position. “So beautiful, love,” Paul says quietly. “I’m gonna fuck you, now.”

John squirms under him, still spasming a bit, but he nods and lets Paul lift up his legs to settle them on his shoulders again. “Why—you—“ he mumbles, breathless. “The briefs? Naked?”

John Lennon Actual Real John Lennon with Sex Hair and Rough Voice can’t string three words together from how hard he just came. This is the biggest accomplishment of Paul’s lifetime, he thinks.

Paul also thinks John is trying to ask him why he isn’t naked. “I don’t know. You tell me,” he answers, sliding his boxers off and tossing them aside. (John actually sucks in a breath. Paul momentarily feels like a sex god.) “Were so busy touching yourself you couldn’t give daddy a hand. Is that what good boys do, John?”

Stretched out under Paul, John looks wrecked, completely undone, but when Paul speaks he digs his heels into the mattress and breathes out, “I’m sorry, daddy, I’m so sorry.”

“Didn’t seem like you were, just a minute ago,” Paul tells him, uncapping the lube and drizzling it directly on John’s hole. “Don’t even deserve to be fucked, really.”

“Please,” John _begs_. (He’s half-hard again already, just by Paul _talking dirty_ to him. Incredible.) “Need you, please, I’m—thinking about this all the time—“

“What would your classmates think,” Paul adds as he rolls the condom over himself, then spreads the lube with the head of his cock, “if they saw you like this, John?”

It’s _beautiful_ , how John takes in a long, deep breath when Paul starts slipping slowly into him, how he holds it there until Paul bottoms out, then exhales with a low, “ _Fuck_ , Macca.”

Paul’s eyes flutter close as soon as he pushes in, overcome with the feeling of his _boy_ clenching all around him like a vice, impossibly hot and unbelievably tight. “Okay, baby?” he chokes out.

There’s a whimper, and John’s legs sliding down Paul’s shoulders to hook on both sides of his back, and then a rough, “Completely okay.”

Paul pulls out slowly, at first, taking his time to thrust back in, starts working a lazy rhythm so John can adjust to it. “My gorgeous boy,” he whispers, folding himself down until his lips are against John’s jaw. “Looking so beautiful like this, doing so good.”

The praise draws a shallow moan out of John and he lifts himself on his elbows a bit, just enough to kiss Paul properly. It’s a perfect kiss, Paul thinks, a _real_ kiss, slow and deep and strong, and it goes on and on and on until John starts wiggling his hips, meeting Paul in the middle—Paul pounds harder into him, then, faster, and John can’t kiss him anymore, can’t help the way his head falls back or the soft sounds he’s making.

 _That’s_ perfect.

And Paul wants to draw it out, really, he does, but he’s been hard for fucking _hours_ and each thrust brings a shock of goosebumps down his back. He grabs John’s arse, lifts him up a bit, starts chasing the heat that’s pooling down in his belly, and he knows he’s being rough, can’t keep a steady rhythm, but John screams _fuck love there yes yes so close_ and moves just as erratically, his entire body trembling with it.

“C’mon, baby,” Paul tells him, breathless. “Come for daddy.”

It’s all it takes for John to dig his fingers in Paul’s sides and come again with a loud, raw moan. Paul works him through it, trying to hold his own orgasm back and stay inside John for just a bit longer, not wanting to miss the way John clenches and unclenches around him, but then John bucks his hips sharply one, two, three times, and that’s enough to tip Paul over the edge.

He comes so hard he blanks out for a moment, everything from his shoulders to his feet spasming as he fills John up, and—fucking hell, _John_. John looks completely _wrecked_ under him, a mat of sweaty curls stuck to his forehead and his lips shiny with spit and bruises already blossoming on his hips.

Paul _made that happen_. And he wants to make it happen over and over again, he thinks; wants to tug at John’s hair and leave him marked where everyone can see; wants to cuddle him up and feed him pizza and listen to him talk about cookie recipes.

“Waiting for you, love,” John calls then, breathless, holding his arms out.

As Paul starts coming down to the _now_ , he thinks of how there’s still a whole world going outside of them, with his job and John’s career and Too Many Unfair Rules. John clings to him like a sticky, sweaty monkey, though, peppering kisses all over his face _,_ and it should feel wrong but it _doesn’t_ , can’t feel wrong when Paul’s heart is swelling inside his chest, making room for this night, for this boy.

They clean each other up, and then John ventures to the kitchen for water and granola bars, and when Paul falls asleep an hour later, with John telling him awful knock-knock jokes and giggling against his neck, he knows it should feel wrong, but it can’t feel anything other than right.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yaaay this chapter is F I N A L L Y up!!! Thank you for sticking with me through the long long wait. I hope you guys like it, and that it isn't... way too much. lol  
> Tell me what you think! Leave me a comment or find me at [tumblr](toppermostofthepoppermost.tumblr.com) :)  
> Love you!!!


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